Light of My World
by TheWeepingWillow555
Summary: Everywhere, lights are dying. Hopes are faded, withered things, and war is brutal. He has a flame in his hand - a spark to reignite all hopes and dreams. Then, on that lonely mountain, an enemy landed, and changed the fate of their planet. Hope may die after all, and them along with it. (AU. Post war fanfic. Discontinued - revised version available.)
1. Alone in The Night

Author's note: Hello! WeepingWillow here. This is my first time writing fanfiction, so please take that into consideration. I hope there aren't too many mistakes, but if there are, feel free to comment on them. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot!

Light of My World

Prologue

It was cold. The ground shook, the air whistled above, high-pitched and unnatural, and the sky was aflame with abrupt flashes of fire and light; explosions he could not hear above the gale. But the feeling of cold was greatest. It caught him, quite literally numbing him to the painful grinding and burning in his middle, masking the luke-warm trickle of life that streamed down his sides in glowing rivulets. The ice was creeping through his cooling systems; he couldn't feel his pedes. Powerless against the cold, the medic watched the fiery dance in the sky and simply tried not to feel; tried not to notice the tears of coolant running down his face, afraid that noticing them would force him to acknowledge the reason why they flowed. He didn't want to remember the moment the shot impacted with his middle, but not because of the pain. It was because of the familiar shape of the weapon, belching blue flame an held in an even more painfully familiar servo-

A harsh, guttural sob threatened to wrench his jaws apart, but he did not let it. He swallowed it with a jolting shudder, and forced his optics up to watch the burning sky.

the First Aid was dying, and with his death the last hope Optimus Prime ever had of winning the war would fade into tatters of a dream; a fantasy none of them could believe anymore. It was between his numb fingers, carefully held inside the wound in his middle so that the last dregs of warmth in his systems could keep it alive just a little longer. Casting a wavering flicker of white light between the oddly shaped bars of its cage, the tiny spark chamber pulsed and fluttered, little wires and mandibles ticking against his palm, seeking the delicate internals of a chassis wall, the nest in which the spark would live forever.

the First Aid closed his optics against the war that raged around him; against the plasma bolts that rocked the alien rock of the cliff beneath him. Bots were dying, and he couldn't save them. _Cons_ were dying, and he _wanted_ to save them. That fact should have shocked him, but it didn't. the First Aid never partook in battle for the simple reason that wrenching a mech's insides open and exposing his dying spark to the world was something he could not force his hands to do. He could throw whatever came to hand at his comrades when their stupidity warranted it, but his hands just…_wouldn't_ kill a mech. Except when -

With a chock, he forced his his mind to wander. Faces flashed before him; golden eyes framed by haughty silver and a blue bell of a helm; a sapphire visor set above a sharp, laughably charming grin; the silver mask below optics as blue as Earth's vast oceans, filled with more kindness that the seas could contain…

The hand that touched his shoulder should have commanded more of an instinctive reaction, but the First Aid's body was kliks away from freezing, and all his limbs could do was shuffle in a bizarre kind of dance, metal screeching against stone. The servo inside his internals cupped the spark casing more firmly, and his optics stuttered online.

"G-Gah!" He rasped, voice laden with static, panic racing through his systems.

Darkly towering above him, wings spread in mockery of an angel of earth, stood a shadow. A very _familiar _shadow. One that chuckled in a high-pitched, grating tone, scarlet optics narrowed and glowing like molten steel.

"Well, well, _well._" Starscream crooned, words laden with a thoughtful lilt. First Aid dismissed the warnings popping up in his vision and _snarled_, engine revving - then sputtering and fading with a wheeze. An acrid stench filled the air, whipped away by the wind, but Starscream did not flinch throughout the display. Standing tall and proud and elegant amid the storm, framed by a molten sky, the seeker's powerful, slim form encapsulated the very essence of war.

"Honestly, Autobot," He said with a sneer First Aid more felt than saw. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were _trying_ to get yourself killed."

Panic jolted his thought processes, giving First Aid no opportunity to reply. What if the seeker saw? Would he understand the importance somewhere in his deranged proccessors?

-_Energon splattered over a golden cockpit, buildings falling, high pitched clicks of petrified agony slicing through the air like knives_…!

No. The youth sectors had proven Starscream had no mercy nor consideration to the weak, let alone one so easily deactivated as the one cradled in First Aid's servos.

"Not going to speak?" The seeker had crouched nearer; a darkly colored face loomed above First Aid's, closer than the flyer would come if the medic had been capable of stopping him. "Pity…"

And then hands were clawing into First Aid's arms, bringing the weak limbs into the air, wrenching the closed fist from inside his middle.

He screamed. High, long, rasping sounds ripped his throat wide open, sending sparks from his vocalizer into the air. He could feel his plating shake and warp, internals grinding an writhing in agony. He had barely enough presence of mind to keep his fist unclenched, though the spark rattled violently within it as his servo shook.

The spark's protection didn't last long. Long, large claws pried his fingers open as easily as humans peeled bananas, and First Aid left all dignity behind.

"No!" He screamed, begging. "No! Please no! Kill me! Not him! Kill me!"

After a pause that sent his hopes flaring, the claws plucked the spark from his palm.

First Aid writhed, barely noticing how his energy splattered the seeker's cockpit - not caring when his middle bent and began to cave.

Words failed him. He didn't know what he was saying, but it wasn't working. The seeker stood, holding the spark in his own blue-stained servos, optics watching First Aid with a look that could be anything from disgust to pleasure.

On his knees now, bent almost double and sparking, First Aid's rage reared, burning through his panic and setting his plating rattling. With a screaming tear of metal on metal, he dove to the side, rolling, snatching, and rising to a jerking halt on one knee only meters away from the seeker. In his servos was the rifle; the familiar weapon that had blasted him through the middle, wrenched from the dead hands of the mech First Aid had killed before he could be killed himself. The body lay to his right, and even in his rage he could not bear to look at it. He _could_ kill again - he _would_ \- for the sake of the sparkling Starscream held in his own servos, bodiless and fading-

Except Starscream wasn't holding the spark in his servos anymore. It was pressed against his chest. within his cockpit. Near his own spark. The arms that had held the sparkling were crossed over the flickering light, protective, aiming charge null rays at First Aid. There was murder in the scarlet optics, but there was also a strange look; a sort of wary hope.

Shocked, the medic choked.

Slowly, carefully, the seeker opened his lips. "I am here…" he said, clearly and carefully, as though First Aid were a bomb that would be set off by the slightest aggression…which he was. "To help."

From behind came a slight sound - a vague hiss and crack accompanied by a purplish flash, but First Aid could not even begin to turn away from the sight before him. Fingers slipped onto First Aid's shoulder, light claws resting on white paint. He remained frozen in shock, staring. Three more hands slipped onto various parts of his body, a deep, thrumming voice murmuring to the open air from behind him.

"You could have told him, Starscream." _Thundercracker, wingmate to Starscream, once an airlord of Vos..._

"Yeah, this slag ain't gonna be easy to fix, now that you went and had him go all protective daddy on you. Aft." _Skywarp, wingmate to Starscream, the most mysterious soldier in the Decepticon army, and potentially the most _vicious_…_

"I didn't want the sparkling exposed to his internals any longer! Do you think he would've believed me if I told him?!" Came the responding shriek, back lips exposing white fangs.

Purple crouching into his vision, red optics wide and sympathetic. "Hey, kid." A chuckle. "I can't believe I'm being _nice_ to an _Autobot_." Violet fingers clinking against white-hot metal inside of his middle. "Aw, _frag_. Hook is gonna _freak_."

"Just tell him the other Autobot did it." First Aid jolted involuntarily. That had been Thundercracker, again, murmuring near his helm, hands steady and reassuring…not ripping, not tearing. Just…holding. "…Why am I letting _you_ do the field repairs? You couldn't even fix that human _toaster_ you were so fond of."

"Hey, that was a complex and tiny-as-all-slag piece of equipment!"

"It was _human-made_."

"_You're_ human-made."

There was a sigh, followed by a few seconds of tense silence, then-

"Fine." Thundercracker growled, continuing in an absurdly childish voice. "You're _face's_ human-made."

"You're _mom's-_" Skywarp began, but a derisive screech cut him off, emanating from the broad span of white wings swaying to and fro ahead them.

"-Shut up you two. Prepare for take off."

When had they started moving? Thundercracker's shoulder was braced beneath First Aid's arm, his vent grinding against the medic's dented armor. They moved in slow, staggering steps, Skywarp's hands grating and clinking against First Aid's insides as he continued his dubious 'repair work' from the medic's other side.

Scarlet eyes moved from his internals to First Aid's face, and the dark seeker smiled in a kindly way. It looked painful. "War's over, kid." He said, speaking more quietly than First Aid could recall him _ever _speaking. "Well, not _quite_ yet, but…" The red gaze ticked ahead, eyeing the soft glow of the sparkling in his wingmate's cockpit; at the light of the new world. "…Soon."

Author's note: Like it? Can't stand it and wish it would be burned (if only you could burn computer documents)? I do apologize for any OOC-ness; I have seen many variations of the characters and haven't yet decided which I will use in my stories (plus, First Aid is not on my list of favorite characters). This is sort of a test run, so I would appreciate it if you would give me your honest opinion of it. I know a lot of fanfiction writer's want a lot of praise when they're starting out, but I think I would prefer to know how people like my style, and if they find the story intriguing AT ALL. Thanks so much! Reviews will affect further postings.


	2. Growing Flame

Author's note: Hello again. I want to thank those of you who reviewed: you motivated me to post a second chapter. :)

**Anodythe**: I'm glad you like it. :) The mystery doesn't last long, and I hope you like the reveal...though I won't say too much as the story's not even close to finished. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, and so far there are no OCs. The plot is mine, though, and mine alone...bwahahaha...

Chapter One

Sometime during his confrontation with the Command Trine, the explosions had stopped. The sky was black and empty; a barren wasteland of stars, but he could no longer see it. First Aid lay on his back, staring up into the eerie stillness of the medbay ceiling, and felt only one thing: relief. Aching, soothing, pulsing _relief_ flooded through his systems with the energon Ratchet was pouring through his lips; he reveled in the way his newly repaired internals accepted the fuel.

"…utter _idiocy_ of attacking a seeker with a _close range_ weapon?! I thought you had more sense!" Ratchet's tirade paused as he twisted a bolt cruelly into place. First Aid barely felt it. "Well, I thought you had _some_ sense, at least." The CMO corrected.

First Aid chuckled, allowing the sound to hold all his cheer, conveying to the CMO that _nothing_ could sour his mood now. "You should have known better than that, Ratchet." He giggled. Ratchet gave his helm a hard tap with his knuckle.

"Don't chortle. I need you still." He muttered, ire somewhat placated by the fact that his patient wasn't a shivering wreck. "What did those seeker's do, _tape_ your wounds in place?" He snarled, switching his scalpel for a welder.

First Aid shrugged. Unbidden, hazy images rose in his mind's eye: scarlet eyes and purple fingers; a pale smile that revealed neat denta and sharp fangs. "They did their best." He murmured soberly. Ratchet's servos stilled for an astro-second before continuing in their work.

"Yes, well…" He growled, but his movements became softer. "I'm pleased you both made it." He added gruffly. "I'm going to initiate stasis, now."

First Aid smiled. He continued to smile as Ratchet started he cycle. His smile remained as the darkness came, sudden and silent; peaceful. Recharge came, and First Aid's lips still spread and ticked up at the corners in an expression of happiness that nothing could mar or stain.

Ratchet watched him for a few moments, optics tired and faceplates drooping. Unbidden, his gaze flicked to the high-powered rifle that leaned against the wall of the medley. It's sleek black surface was stained with thick streams of energon; globules of the substance clogged the mechanisms. The gun was familiar. First Aid had been clutching it tightly when Ironhide brought him in, but it had never belonged to the medic.

Ratchet turned away with a heavy sigh, and left the medbay.

Many Vorns Later

Little pedes pounded over even, sleek floor. Grey plating flashed as a small, thin form darted past a shaft of sunlight, sending rays ricocheting into shadows that seeped into the hallway, seeming to smother whatever light sought entry. A single kick against the steel floor sent the tiny figure soaring, arms and legs gracefully extended, into open darkness. An opening loomed, and the figure flew through it with ease, tucking its small body and rolling through the air. Once through, its limbs spread once more, and the figure fell down in an open-armed descent down the inside of the elevator shaft. Delicate digits tapped against wires, keeping the figure a safe distance from cables that could shred through light armor at these speeds. Air whistled past, licking over a sleek, unadorned chassis and simply shaped box-helm, tickling the horn-like protrusions that served as sensors. With a chirp, the form curled tightly, angling its feet and spinning forward until it almost brushed the wall. With a snapping motion that cracked in the rushing air, it unfolded. Tiny servos flared, spreading digits wide, and then-

_Slam_! The digits caught. The little bot came to a jerking halt, smacking against the wall and bouncing away, held midair by a convenient ladder-rung. It was the top ladder rung, and placed immediately above it was a square indent sliced thinly along its length in several places. It was a grate, and the nimble bot knew it. Ecstatic, evil clicks and warbles bubbled soft from a rasping vocalizer, and the figure heaved itself up onto the top rung, releasing its digits from the bar carefully, one by one. As soon as all were freed, the delicate mandibles attacked the grate, silently slipping into crevices and pulling free already suspiciously loose bolts. There were old scuff marks where the digits clenched, as though it was a frequently used escape hatch rather than a vent.

One harsh tug later, light spilled into the elevator shaft, flooding the pipes and cables with golden streams, glinting off of rusty, neglected metalwork. The chirp that echoed through the long, vertical shaft was decidedly smug.

Carefully, one silver leg poked out into the empty hallway beyond the vent. It tentatively felt for purchase; large, flat base patting the wall and wiggling further, seeking some sort of higher ground than the floor, and finding none. There was a confused bleep, and the leg fell limp. Its owner ruminated on this unexpected development, in no doubt, apparently, that there _should be_ a higher surface there. It was a very simple situation. There should be a manner of exit that did not involve a loud collision with the floor. There was not. A solution must be found, as the elevator shaft could not be returned to with dignity intact. Niether, however, could an expedition to the hallway end in anything but absurdity. In both cases, precious self-esteem was lost.

The solution to the conundrum came in the form of five large digits wrapping around the little bot's limp, exposed limb. A harsh tug brought the wiry ball of silver indignation out into the lit hall, squealing, thrashing, and bleeping furiously.

A blue visor glowed cheerfully into the smooth silver face of the smaller bot, and a huge, charming grin spread across the attacker's features.

"Well hey there, little guy." Jazz cooed worriedly. "I though that pede poking outta there looked a bit suspicious." His smile was more akin to the cat who at the canary than a responsible adult finding a less responsible child in a dangerous situation, however, and the little bot wasn't buying his charade.

Static laden beeps blared, and the little face gave in to the smile that had been threatening to break free with an exaggerated show of exasperation.

"What? I won? Primus, were you playin' a _game_?" Jazz asked, seemingly incredulous. "Oh, Bee, y'can't go 'round playing dangerous sports now, can ya?"

Obediently, the sparkling shook his little helm vigorously.

"No sir-ee, not 'til you're Special Ops!" The saboteur asserted firmly, grinning smugly and spinning on his heel. Strong black and white legs swished back and forth beneath the suspended sparkling, large pedes landing with surprisingly soft clicks against the metal floors. The white digits clasping Bumblebee's grey plating wriggled slightly, the pinky deftly freeing itself and poking into sensitive seams.

Bumblebee chortled, outright guffawing as the pinky delved into his hip seam.

"I still got it." Jazz chuckled quietly to himself.

* * *

"Jazz, I need you to-" Prowl stopped mid-sentence as he caught sight of his fellow officer. He blinked. Several times. The image did not fade or alter in the slightest. Bumblebee perched atop the saboteur's helm like some sort of bizarre ornament, chin and chassis thrust out, haughty blue eyes eyeing Prowl with a scorn no sparkling should be able to achieve. Between the sparkling's silver knee-plates, Jazz's face assumed a slack and innocent appearance. His walk was casual, as though there were nothing atop his head but air, and how _foolish_ Prowl would be to think there was a _sparkling_ there. Tcha! For shame. Jazz was innocently reporting for duty, not serving as a taxi for midgets smaller than he.

With a sigh, Prowl shuttered his optics and continued. "I need you to report to Optimus. You're already seven breems late."

"Gotcha Prowler!" Came the jovial reply. The two bots - large and small - practically skipped out of his office, and the door slid shut behind them.

If a chuckle came from behind his desk as the two frolicked away, no one was there to hear.

* * *

Optimus Prime's office had changed since the years of war. Instead of datapad reports and strategic holograms, there were statistics on Praxian agricultural crystals and diagrams representing the shapes they could be formed into using seeker turbines. Notifications and suggestions for Iacon's growing trade district were piled in a heap by the Prime's desk on the floor; more of them were spread in what no mech dared call a carpet of datapads across most of Optimus' floorspace. His desk was filled with communication servers, courtesy of Blaster's media companies (yes, there were plural), and a few knick-knacks that carried enough sentimental value that they each had a few square human feet of desk-space. His chair was even less comfortable that the one he had (he now considered) _indulged _in during the war, being nothing more than a large flat square with pillar-like poles for legs. It was already bubbling down beneath his weight in the center, which was another discomfort.

He was seated in this hellish contraption when the scanner by his door detected a visitor. The shrill beeping startled the Prime, and his seating paid the price.

"Come in." He growled into the comm., examining the new aft-shaped hole in his chair with a glower.

Jazz slipped like oil into the office through the sliding doors, a spring in his step, servos held respectfully behind his back. "Heya, boss bot!" The Spec Ops mech greeted, snagging the visitor's chair with his pede and smoothly sliding it beneath his descending aft. His arms, Optimus noted, remained behind him, looped over the back of the chair. It looked uncomfortable, and Jazz was usually allergic to discomfort during debriefs. Optimus frowned behind his battle mask, more than a little suspicious and already resigned to whatever joke the mech had planned.

"Hello, Jazz." He replied politely, but the diplomatic control he had over his voice during the war had lessened during the many cycles he had recently spent as impromptu governor of the entirety of Cybertron, and his words had a peculiar air to them. It resembled the tone Ratchet used when Wheeljack asked for potentially explosive supplies from the medbay: warier than Ironhide during one of Chromia's "moods".

Jazz grinned. "Want my report?" He asked, innocent as a cycle was long. Optimus didn't buy it.

"Please." He asked anyway, willing to wait as long as Jazz saw fit to hide his secret.

"Security patrol - that is, me and Prowler - would like to announce that, as of yesterday, nobot has slugged nor slagged off another. Not in optic range o' us, that is, and you know we love those unpredictable spots from which we may watch and film blackmail unbeknownst to nobot." Jazz's tone became ridiculously dramatic at the end of his report, and his visor wiggled. Prime couldn't help but chuckle, his mood improving with every cheery joke the mech rolled out.

"Alright, alright." He rumbled. "Now, what about Decepticon integration?"

"Slag-heads still chuggin' away at maintainin' the peace. Thundercracker's been promoted as Prowl's Official Second in Command."

"I thought that was your post."

"Naw, Prowler wanted me in a lower position to keep an eye on the grunts of our operation. He deals with the officers, I deal with the hired help."

Optimus nodded, understanding the implication: Jazz was Prowl's second no matter what the forms said; Thundercracker, as an integrated Decepticon, posed as proof of fairness in the security force, to show that Autobots did not favor their own above others. "And the Neutrals?"

"Still happy as all-get-out, but ticked off that they gotta help with clean-up of a war they didn't ask for or support."

"I see." The Prime hummed.

"I got good news too, y'know." Jazz's smile was glistening white, his armor furling out in a display of fluffy cuddliness no Autobot believed anymore. His arms, glistening black and white, uncurled carefully from behind his back, clawed white digits clutching-

The little grey sparkling examined the being fifteen times his size with an air of affectionate disregard, as though the Prime were the sparkling and he the indulgent adult. Silver nubs on a silver helm twitched, scanning Prime's massive frame, and the half-lidded expression of indifference immediately vanished as Bumblebee recognized exactly which adult he was being presented to.

With a high-pitched squeal, the figure leapt from Jazz's loose hold, flying spread-eagled through the air and landing with a ringing clatter on Prime's chest; plastered there like some flattened decoration. His digits immediately slipped into crevices in Optimus' armor, eliciting a deep, heartfelt chuckle.

From the moment he'd seen the spark, frail and clutched between the Air Commander of the Decepticon's sky blue digits, Optimus had loved it. As a Prime, the sparkling was his subject; his to protect and nurture. As Optimus, he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for what the young spark had been through; the mechs that had died to protect and destroy it both. Optimus had loved the spark as much as the Matrix in his chest had, and by the time Bumblebee was a few vorn old, the Prime had all but claimed him as his own, along with 80 percent of his officers. Red Alert vowed to ensure the sparkling's safety, but he wasn't really the fatherly type…or the motherly type; there had been a few of those despite the majority of Optimus' officer cadre being male. Jazz was a perfect example.

"Found 'im in the Spec Ops stair well, or so its been dubbed. Lil' guy's gettin' better at...well, everythin' 'cept caution." Jazz drawled proudly. The sparkling smiled up at Optimus, face-plates squeaking with the strain the expression exerted on the thin metal. Optimus curled his enormous arms and body around the little bot, bestowing upon him one of the heavy, warm hugs the sparkling coveted. When he looked up, he could almost swear he saw a little jealousy in Jazz's pout as the mech eyed the comfortable-looking embrace.

"Oh sure, now that I brought the vermin, I'm chop liver." The mech muttered, slipping easily from his seat and slinking to the door. Optimus ignored the comment. The sparkling in his arms was wriggling and singling under the smooth edges of his armor, and the sight was far too adorable to ignore.

* * *

Outside in the hall, Jazz grinned to himself, shaking his black-helmed head. Deep cooing and high giggles came from behind the sliding door, and the sounds were so contagious, Jazz had to beat a hasty retreat. Wouldn't want some mech walking up to find him leaning against the wall outside Prime's office, beaming sappily and giggling like a fool.

He was reminded of how grateful he was the sparkling had survived. The intricate details of that dark night rose as well, and Jazz's smile transformed into a cold sneer as he walked along the vibrantly orange walls of the Autobot embassy; the _Ark_. Black anger weaved its way into the saboteur's movements, lightening his step and smoothening the swing of his arms. His left servo twitched, the gleaming digits trembling before clenching into a fist. If only he'd _been_ there when First Aid was betrayed…but there was nothing to do about it now. The mech was dead, and both medic and sparkling had been saved by seekers rather than their fellow Autobots.

Still, Jazz silently and bitterly cursed Cliffjumper's name, an old ache throbbing in his spark.

Author's note: So...you know who shot First Aid now, at least...even if you don't know, you know, _why._ I do apologize for the time skip; there is a reason behind it, I promise. Please keep reviewing! I'd like to know what you guys think. BTW, this is the second time I post this chapter. I read through it again, and realized that spellcheck is almost as unhelpful as it is helpful when dealing with invented words.


	3. Bleeding Sparks

Author's note: Here's Chapter Two! I was really excited about this one, mostly because two of my favorite characters appear in it...  
Anyway, thanks to those that reviewed previously! Please forgive any grammar mistakes or misspelling; I have no beta and my spellcheck is a tyrannical beast. And with that, on with the show!

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers.

Chapter Two

_War was not a memory. Blue optics were a memory; large, shaking digits and screams, cold claws and red gazes pounding down._

He raced around another corner, pedes snapping down, banging off of silver floors and propelling him forward, faster_, _faster_, faster…_

_There was something older; something like a beginning…but he couldn't make it out_…

Light glittered over grey plating; shimmered down a ridged spinal strut and over plainly colorless thighs. The orange walls of the _Ark_ were a blur beside him, and air whistled under the edges of his armor.

…_There was anger and loud voices - a thunderous Ca-Thoom-!_

A dark doorway slid into existence before the him, and he took the exit, skidding into the _Ark_'s cavernous Rec Room and leaping without hesitation onto a surprised mountain of heavy black plating where it sat at a long table.

"What the-!" Came the rolling, deep snarl, wide blue optics narrowing almost immediately at the sight of him. Bumblebee squealed with delight as Ironhide's arms banded around him, curling into heavy walls of warm machinery and weaponry that surrounded him on almost all sides. "Cut the audio assault, brat." The Weapons Specialist growled, the noise thrumming through his enormous chassis and through to Bumblebee's struts. "I gotta use that particular part o' mah body later. Prime's got a debriefin'." The squinted optics shrank to slits as the big mech pretended to consider. "Or maybe I oughtta thank ya for blowing out mah receptors. Won't hafta hear a fraggin' thi-"

"Ironhide!" Something loud and high-pitched shrieked from somewhere painfully close. The accused mech grimaced at the noise.

"What?" He drawled, raising an optic ridge at the speaker. Arcee gaped, jaw hanging wide open and optics equally stretched. The femme sat to Ironhide's left, opposite Blaster, who had started chuckling, attempting to disguise it as violent coughs when the femme's gaze found him.

Arcee turned her scalding glare back to Ironhide. "Do you always speak in _'vulgar'_?" She hissed, the sound grating past thin, silver lips that twisted into an ugly - but somehow still feminine - snarl. "Sparklings shouldn't be hearing that sort of thing!"

"Kid's around The Hatchet all th' time. He ain't learned 'em now, he's gonna soon."

"That's no excuse!"

"Aw, quit your yappin', femme." Ironhide grumbled, turning his attention back to the ball of Adorable that had wriggled free of his embrace and somehow ended up in his lap.

Bumblebee looked a bit puzzled by the agrument, but happy enough. The sparkling's silver frame was practically quivering with excitement. Ironhide grinned.

"Ah bet Ah know what you want, huh half-bit?" Plating rattled as Bumblebee's aft wiggled enthusiastically, optics brightening. "Yeah? Ya think so?" A furious nod that progressed into a full body shudder. "Well then git up here!"

A grey blur streaked up Ironhide's chasis, pedes slipping every which way on the mech's smooth shoulder armor, and Bumblebee threw himself in a graceless belly-flop onto the tabletop. Around him, mechs snickered, the long tablelength of mechs turning to watch the show. Even mechs at surrounding tables cast a few glances in their direction; the rumbling chatter and buzz of conversation lessened.

Bumblebee jumped up from his sprawled position - only to fall back with a _plop_ on his aft, horns perked and optics practically popping, his little denta revealed in a ridiculously jubilant grin. Beside him, one of Ironhide's enormous cannons slammed onto the table with thunderous finality, denting the metal and sending the sparkling up into the air a neat four feet. He landed in the same sitting position, already crowing at the sight of the weapon, servos grasping and groping frantically. The Weapons Specialist kept him back with one pinky finger, using the rest of his digits to begin dismantling the gun. His right arm looked strangely bare without the thick, tubelike weapon encircling it, and a few bots snapped surreptitious pictures for later proof that the things were indeed removable.

The mech's deep rumble overrode any snickers that might have been heard. "Now, this here's the release trigger - don' touch it half-bit! - and this do-hickey's an ammo cash…"

The other mechs and femme watched with an air of exasperated amusement, sending one another glances filled with hidden meanings and inside jokes - those that weren't broadcasted out loud on the comms. Meanwhile, the old mech and the tiny sparkling had the time of their lives ripping apart the massive, death-dealing cannon, Ironhide carefully explaining each piece to his protege.

The Rec Room in general settled down to watch, most of the many mechs relaxed and content, the single femme reluctantly amused.

* * *

_Elsewhere on Cybertron..._

Rust plumed from beneath flared, weary pedes with every stuttering step. The owners stumbled and lurched across a red landscape, the metal dust washing over their scarred and battered frames. Arms linked around slim waists made for twisting and bending in ways other mechs could not; hands clutched at armor gouged with long, deep incisions. Blue optics flickered, and with each darkening shutter the wide pedes faltered more drastically. Behind them, glistening blue strands of energon laced the ground, one trail thicker than the other.

Before them, in the distance, lights glimmered and flashed, and dark spires rose to kiss fiery, darkening skies. A city. The two mechs looked up as one, expressions flat despite their obvious pain, optics cold, as though they were already dead. As one, they moved forward again. As one, their step caught, wavered, and gave out. As one, they fell with a wailing, screeching crash to the cold metal earth. Rust billowed in clouds around them, and energon pooled beneath their frames.

* * *

Scalpel was a simple mech. He didn't look simple; his legs were many and complex; spidery and clawed with tools at every end. His helm was nothing more than wires and large red optics; as a scientist he had no use for armor. His spark glowed freely in the gusting winds, a flickering, wild thing he was all but oblivious towards. As long as he functioned, Scalpel needn't waste valuable time worrying about his spark - though, on further reflection, by the time he needed to worry about it, he'd probably be dead. This realization was scoffingly deemed unimportant, and Scalpel turned his attention back to exciting, meaningful things. Like _science_.

Scalpel had a body, had a frame and limbs and a spark, but they were only means to an end. Science was his passion - or more accurately, science had chosen _him_ for a mission, and permitted him to adore it in the process.

With a squeal, the little mech scurried over rust-strewn ground, avoiding jagged holes in the planet surface and scuttling through the harsh gales that slapped at him. There was _life_ ahead! A sample of the greatest mystery in the universe was at his claw-tips - and such an unusual circumstance, too! Two sparks as registering as one, flickering in the wind, dying at an alarmingly fast rate. There were but moments to intervene and claim the specimen…alive, at least. Even dead, the corpses would be interesting.

A skate and a roll later, he landed atop the first. Rusty, dirty red plating fell away beneath his blowtorch, revealing the slow, weak pulse of a deep blue spark with a white center. Scalpel stared, excitement rattling through his systems, quivering through his helm and sending his antennae bobbling. Most sparks were a single color, with lighter or darker stabs of emotion and being pulsing through their glowing centers. The contrast of almost ebony blue to the sparkling white core of _this _spark was unprecedented. Scalpel _loved_ that word, mostly for the hours of uninterrupted study it implied.

The spark casing was breeched; contaminants were licking at the wavering spark field. Scalpel set to work, injecting a vial of membro and watching as the thick, gelatinous substance safely encased the throbbing spark. That done, the mech scuttled over the the second 'patient'. This one was worse: The spark casing wasn't just breeched, it looked as though something had ripped into the mech's very core, scrabbling at his spark before closing on it briefly, crushing the casing entirely and leaving the spark without any protection. Energon had soaked into the cavity where the casing had been, sizzling as tendrils of the spark tentatively reached out to it, looking for the walls that had been so brutally ripped away. Seeing such a spark, the same midnight blue with a glowing center, open to the air and fluctuating nearly made Scalpel swoon. The only thing that stopped him was the cold hard fact that if he glitched, he would not be able to examine it.

Gleefully clicking to himself, the small bot kept his limbs working diligently, salvaging what he could from the casing and retrieving spare scraps from his subspace. The result was a state of events not dissimilar to the first 'patient', with membro sealing the spark safely in the makeshift and highly volatile casing, which was incomplete.

Scalpel moved on the the bots' other ailments, patching what he could and leaving what he couldn't. The two mechs were still teetering on the edge of deactivation; cable spasms shook their frames from time to time, and energon leaked from between the silver lips of the red mech, signaling an internal problem Scalpel hadn't noticed.

So much work to accomplish; so little time.

Now…how to haul two excessively damaged frames seven times his size to the depths of New Kaon - preferably without being noticed? For the furthering of science, he'd find a way.

* * *

_Back at the Ark..._

"…And _that's_ how ya dismantle and reassemble a compositrite calibrator, half-bit!" Ironhide huffed, slamming the finished work of art upon the rec room table. Bumblebee watched with skeptical eyes; the dismantling and reassembling had been blurry with speed, and he wasn't entirely sure the Weapons Specialist hadn't cheated at some point. Ironhide noticed his dubious expression, and immediately soured. "Oh come on! Don' tell me ya're jealous of mah incredibly mechly speed and dexterity?"

"Ironhide, I'm ninety-seven percent sure you don't know what 'dexterity' _means_, let alone possess the ability." Came a distinctly disgruntled voice. It sounded as though somemech was pissed and trying to make it sound witty, all the while pouting because of the reason he was pissed. Both Ironhide and Bumblebee glanced up with identical expressions of "the _frag-_?" on their mobile features (though somehow Ironhide managed to make his "the _frag_-?" look like a raging thunderstorm caught unawares by a saucy clown throwing insults at it. Bumblebee just looked clueless).

Red Alert glowered grumpily from his position by the rec room doors, chassis puffed out arrogantly, optics narrowed, arms crossed over his front. Red and white plating glowed dully underneath the _Ark_'s internal lighting system, showing dents and scratches here and there. Beneath the optics, dark scuff marks indicated servos rubbing repeatedly over and around the area, trying to force tired optics to remain open. In short, the Director of Security looked ragged.

Ironhide blinked, expression becoming a tad frostier. "What'd we do, Red? Sit on a camera ya had laying' around?" He joked, but there was little humor in his tone. Bumblebee just blinked, still looking confused. His optics flickered as internal systems check initiated, and then the sparkling gasped, horrified, whirling around to stare at Ironhide in…

It was hard to believe, but Bumblebee's optics held more adoration in them than ever before.

"As I believe the _sparkling_ has noticed," Red Alert snapped acidly. "Where you _haven't_, I might add," He spat condescendingly. "It is nearly _two moors_ past its recharge initiation period!"

Ironhide shuttered his optics briefly in disbelief. "His bedtime? Aw, we ain't even gotten _near_-" He stopped, optics flickering as he too checked his systems, most especially his chronometer. "Aw _hell_." He muttered, slumping moodily in his seat, optics narrowing in a glare that rested squarely on Red Alert. Who had become decidedly smug, even though he remained excessively peeved as well.

"I'm _sorry_," He sneered, and Ironhide bristled, lip-plates twitching. "My audios must be malfunctioning. What did you say?"

"Ain't that a _Security Hazard_? Havin' bad hearin'?"

"Not when it means I get to hear you say 'Y'all was right, Rey-ad, and Ah was wrong", a _billion _times over." The mech replied with a truly evil smirk.

Ironhide's glower descended into levels of frightening that would have sent many a Decepticon running to the hills, peace or no. "I'm gettin' half-bit here ta bed, now." He gritted out, rising with a groan of pistons, armor scrapings, and internal clatter. Bumblebee himself simply kept staring at his hero - at the mech who had allowed him the freedom of lack of recharge. His glistening optics were wide, and he immediately purred as Ironhide scooped him up, a dazed and goofy smile plastered over tiny lip-plates as Ironhide's lumbering gait carried both of them away; leaving a muttering Security Director behind them in the rec room.

* * *

Bumblebee stirred as a loud gust of air coughed its way into his audios. Ironhide's hands were still warm and comforting around him, and he wasn't planning on moving any time soon. He heard deep vocals rumbling; felt the vibrations race through his frame to his horns, where they were analyzed and promptly ignored. At the moment, he didn't care to listen to the chatter of adults, regardless of the fact that one of those adults had allowed him to stay up past his recharge initiation period - 'bedtime', 'Hide had called it.

Then he was tipping; the massive hands beneath him were tilting, sliding him away from blissful warmth and into a pair of colder, larger hands. Unacceptable.

Little claws sank between plating seams, and clenched into sensitive wires.

"Fraggin' son-of-a-_glitch_!" Came a deep, gravely, and unforgivably _loud_ roar from above him. The claws clenched tighter in remonstrance. Ironhide froze, and Bumblebee could tell the larger mech was somewhere between wary and apoplectic. "Git yer pinchers outta mah joints, _bitlet_." The growl resonated in his horns again, and Bumblebee squawked his indignation, curling inwards towards warmth and security. The previous hero worship had been utterly forgotten in the face of loss of comfort; that was _then_, this was _now_, and _now_ should involve heat, softly recharging systems, and a soothing, throbbing sparkbeat beneath his helm.

Then the other mech chuckled, and Bumblebee's audios identified him. In a sparkbeat, Ironhide's servos were empty, and the Prime had a palmful of sparkling in his servos. The change was so sudden, Optimus' amused rumbles ceased with a startled hiccup. Ironhide made a grating, grinding noise in his engine that roughly translated to: "Buh?…"

The air was silent for a few moments, but soon the soft sounds of a tiny snoring engine made themselves known. The two larger mechs blinked at the tightly curled, deeply recharging sparkling with stupefied disbelief. Then Optimus raised his head and gave Ironhide a nod. The Weapons Specialist swung around and departed, grumbling; Optimus turned back into the cavernous depths of his own quarters with soft, very un-Primely grin of sappy contentment, reeling his servos in and all but cuddling the tiny frame - whose snores were rapidly growing in volume - next to his deeply pulsing spark.

* * *

_Somewhere in New Kaon..._

"What do you mean, 'the same'?" Hook frowned, crossing his arms over his chassis and regarding the spastic mech before him with barely contained scorn. Scalpel giggled manically from his crouched skulk, ooching across the slick metal floor.

They were in the Decepticon Medbay. Mirrors covered one wall, giving the illusion of space where there was barely any (the mirrors had been Skywarp's idea; he'd read up on it on some human housewives' site, Primus only knew _why_). Above, dim lights flickered over glinting tools where they were delicately placed on the wall opposite the entrance, hanging on thin metal bolts and hooks. Tables (rec room dining tables converted into medberths) lined the last wall, shoved there haphazardly to allow Hook space for cleaning the floor. That Scalpel was currently scuffing.

Hook sighed. "Look, Scalpel. Sparks can't be the same and yet separate. There are sparks that are _alike_ \- twin sparks, for instance - but there are never two that are exactly the same." He didn't know why he was explaining this. He really didn't. Maybe it was his perfectionist tendencies attempting to make Scalpel into a better scientist, since perfection in that area was obviously unattainable.

His words had little to no effect on the excited ball of Scalpel quivering on his floor. "Nien! _Nien_! I haf _seen_ it, zoo _unbeliever_!" Shrieked the little bot, optics popping wide.

Hook chewed his bottom lip thoroughly, glowering outright at the blatant and irrational denial. "Alright. You want evidence? Let's go see _Shockwave._" He snapped waspishly, nearly squishing the scientist with one large, glinting green pede as he strode to the exit. The ticking sound of Scalpel's limbs working double-time to keep him level with his adversary was an amusing balm to his irritation.

By the time they reached the entrance to Shockwave's laboratory, Hook was seriously rethinking his suggestion. And it wasn't just because of the decor. Large, imposing doors loomed above them, black and flat, so scratched and scuffed they did little more than offer a few bubbly reflections of the flickering, yellowed hall lights in their surface. They weren't sliding doors; Shockwave had them installed with handles that twisted seven ways before allowing entry, and that was only if a mech managed to punch in the billion digit code (literally; it _was_ one billion digits long exactly) before it changed, which happened at random intervals during each cycle. Soundwave was the only mech who managed entry on the _first_ try _every_ try. Even Lord Megatron could be heard every so often howling obscenities at the keypad, which played a very simple yet infuriating message to those who failed to enter the code: "_Access…denied…access…denied…access…denied…_" It was infuriating, especially considering the scientist probably hadn't meant the message to be annoying in any way. He would always answer volcanic exclamations of "_Why In the Pit?!_" with a simple "It seemed only _logical_."

Starscream had shot the scientist with a null ray for that one. Megatron had beaten the seeker with his own arm for the 'unprovoked' attack. Business had continued as usual.

Hook suppressed a shiver as he eyed the famed keypad, one vibrantly purple claw poised over the first worn and battered key, ready to fall but restrained by pure, unadulterated '_Do Not Want_'. In the event that an attempt failed…the message would play. And by this point all the audios on the ship could sense the tinny voice; could tell the moment it began to play and seemed to have a sixth sense regarding who was responsible.

Scalpel solved the issue by scampering up the the keypad excitedly, apparently oblivious to Hook's hand and anything that was not related to getting an explanation of spark theories from Shockwave. His little legs tapped against the keys with wild abandon, his sing-song vocals screeching a human tune - Russian, if Hook was not mistaken. The aforementioned medic had retreated the instant responsibility was removed from his shoulders, cowering unashamedly in the shadows of the corridor. _Any moment now..._

A cheery _beep_ sounded, and the two massive doors gave a pair of deep_ clicks_ as locks disengaged.

Raising a disbelieving eyebrow, Hook remained in his position, deeply distrustful of such an easy success. Decepticons had learned that they rarely succeeded. Ever. And if they did, it was probably a ruse.

But the two doors swung simply open, and no battle-ready Autobots leapt into sight. Only blackness seeped forth, occasionally lessened by flashes and sharp sparks of electricity; _lessened_, but never overcome. Deep within the blackness, a single red optic, set _high_ above the floor, turned to regard them with chilly annoyance. Scalpel, oblivious as always, chittered and twittered, but did not enter. Apparently his scientific honor did not allow him to enter another worshiper's domain unless so invited, or at least unless said worshiper wasn't watching with a baleful optic. Hook swallowed, trying to appear cool and indifferent and disassociated from the tiny, scrabbling puddle of Excitement named Scalpel.

"And to what," Came the rolling words, like a landslide of chocolate over molasses. "Do I owe this intrusion?"

* * *

Author's note: Can I just say, I _love_ Scalpel? Anyone else think he's hilarious, or is it just author's bias? Well, anyways, please review! Reviews get more chapters going!


	4. Strangers Born of Mystery

_Author's Note: _Hey there! I'm sorry this chapter's a bit later than the others; it was giving me some trouble. :p That and life caught up with me, Christmas presents needed to be bought and I had to undergo some surgery. Nothing too big, but I'm still a little sore. Thanks to those that reviewed; it's greatly appreciated.

Anyways, In case I don't update before then, Merry Christmas! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot.

* * *

Chapter Three

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

In the beginning they were called criminals; lawbreakers; no better than petty thieves. Some of them were; some of them didn't believe in freedom, only the power of Megatron and the victories he won. They were like sheltered carrion birds beneath the wings of a savior, utterly oblivious or uncaring toward the true nature of their shelter. They laughed at the impassioned speeches of the miner who led them, and that he was naive was a forgone conclusion amid their ranks. These were no different from petty criminals save for their supposed affiliation with a swiftly growing sect.

Then their leader, a simple miner designated Megatron, confronted the council with his brash speech and empty promises of destruction; his 'paving the way for freedom', as it was said. Though his tongue was clever and his words careful, he was disregarded; jailed for improper conduct. By the end of the cycle, the cell was discovered empty, a clear path of carnage leading through the disciplinary facility to the open air…through the _front doors_.

Then mecha whispered - "_Revolution_" was spoken in soft hums where there was no light or audios to overhear; in alleys and bars and even libraries.

It became immediately apparent at the first attack that Decepticons were no religious fanatics, nor criminals seeking vindication. The officials and security forces at the Iaconian docks were efficiently and brutally slaughtered. Vidfeeds showing the massacre were sent out all over Cybertron, their source untraceable, their presentation unhindered by the most skillful of the Council's resources. During their duration, it was said that Cybertron became still.

It was the silence that was so horrifying, some said. The screams of the officers were loud and high, ripped with static, but their murderers made no sound.

_"No! Please don't…!"_

Some screamed that they couldn't feel their own bodies anymore, vocalizers stuttering and sputtering with an organic splatter as energon choked their intakes. Others screamed because they could.

_"I have a sparkling!"_

The blades cut and sawed methodically. The blasters fired. The cycle ended, and flashes of weaponry discharge lit the empty black screen, some distant, some near.

After that presentation, no one believed the Decepticons were anything but monsters. They walked like heroes through conquered cities, but they dealt with their enemies like the most brutal of criminals. They had the idealism of Primes, but the shrewdness of the Council.

Those were the days Shockwave was proud to call himself a Decepticon. Now, he felt like banging his one-eyed helm against a wall - not the most logical inclination he had experienced, but still, the idea was most alluring.

"I haf _seen_ it!" Howled the spidery perversion before him in a childish wail, optics half-crazed with fervor.

"That would indeed be a fascinating experience, if it were _at all_ possible." Shockwave seethed beneath his cool exterior, intonations flicking against his unbelievably stupid fellow scientist like laser fire, and from the doorway (the coward) the medic flinched audibly. Shockwave tried to picture again the ancient vidscreen filled with violence, imagining Scalpel replacing the officers in every frame. Perhaps that would satisfy his hungering aggression-

"_Obviously_," The tiny bot sneered condescendingly up at him. "It is possible, for I haf _seen_ it."

-Hah. There went that attempt.

Shockwave slammed his single hand upon his workspace table, denting the high-grade, microfibre enhanced material. "You use that phrase as though it will solve answer my every objection." He growled, words fast and acidic, engine gunning with a thunderous, low register _rev_. "However, if you were at all familiar with the method one uses in examining the intricacies of _scientific observation_, you might realize that your method is _flawed_."

* * *

Hook cringed. It was a merciless, brutal strike - especially since Scalpel shared the larger mech's occupation. 'Method', in a scientist's line of thinking, was everything a mech _was_. Stupid, really, but the point was that Shockwave had essentially called Scalpel "fragged up" to his face-plates.

Scalpel, however, was no ordinary scientist. Concerned only with the fascinating spark duo he had discovered and the potential study of their internals, the little mech continued with a mocking tone. "If he beliefes sat ze possibility is not prezent, zen perhaps ze only option is to _perhoof it to heem_…" Apparently, Scalpel was willing to do and overlook anything (in fact, it was quite possible Scalpel's obsessed processors hadn't noticed he had been insulted; personal injury was not related to _Science_) to get Shockwave to inspect his 'samples'. Hook had no doubt the little mech fully intended to drag the senior scientist there if he refused to come willingly, despite obvious size difference, mass tonnage, and, of course, Shockwave's arm - or rather, the massive cannon he had _replaced_ his arm with.

The aforementioned mountain of irritation blinked his single optic at Scalpel, apparently impressed by the mech's lack of reaction. Or maybe he was well and truly pissed that his insult hadn't garnered a response. Hook couldn't tell since Shockwave didn't really have a _face_.

There was a massive and tremulous intake of breath. "It appears that you will continue your disruptive chatter unless I comply. For the sake of time and efficiency, my only stipulation in examining your findings personally is that you never enter my domain again, unless specifically directed to do so."

"Done!" Chirped Scalpel immediately, and he turned on his many heels, scuttling speedily in Hook's direction. For a moment, the medic stiffened, wondering if he was to serve some unpleasant scientific purpose in the mechs' plans, before he realized that the door was right behind him.

Hook turned almost as speedily as Scalpel scurried, wrenched open the massive doors, and fled. The matter was now somewhat resolved; Scalpel wouldn't be coming to _him_, anyway, and Hook had many things to do. Things that did not involve a Shockwave. Especially a Shockwave that had been dragged from his favorite pet projects to examine an impossibility. Behind him, thunderous pede-falls kept bizarre time with the _tickatickatickatick_ of Scalpel's clawed appendages against the floor, and the two scientists disappeared from view down an adjacent corridor.

The medbay was unfinished, and so Hook took a left turn at the next junction. The hallways were quiet, and for once, clean. Hook approved of both, and-

There was blue on the floor.

Weapons unfurled and snapped into place before Hook's processors could fully understand the scene. In battle, a mech did not have time to discern harmless paint from deadly acids, or the bang of a firework for the discharge of a blaster. More often than not, when a mech had fast-acting - if paranoid - defense protocols, that mech survived. Energy blade and blaster held at the ready, optics already humming with the power rerouted to them, Hook blinked, and allowed the area before him to be properly analyzed.

It dripped from the ceiling. There were seams in all the surfaces within Decepticon headquarters, as well as ventilation systems and heating ducts installed throughout the weaving hallways and spacious living quarters. But the spaces between floors was too crowded with internal necessities to have allowed energon to flow through the cracks of one floor, past structural beams and wiring, and into the hallway below…unless there was a _lot_ of it. Hook allowed battle protocols to take full control, and signaled a ship-wide red alert. Immediately, his comm went off:

_"Ze patients! Zey haf escaped!"_

* * *

_One floor above..._

Darkness seeped from every corner, staining the air black. He had switched his optics off, so that there would be no visual way for the enemy to track his movements. His scrambler would blind any mech scanning with personal mods; the likelihood of a medic capable of in depth scans being present in _this facility_ was close to zero. He was counting on that less than one percent, though. It was his twin's only chance.

Sideswipe sank crimson digits into the energon-coated frame of his other half, all but dragging the familiar body against his own. Cold, sticky plating sizzled against his own red-hot systems, and he smelt steam. Sunstreaker was fully conscious, his optics powered off, frame tense and…tentative. That was the only words Sideswipe could think of to describe him; Sunstreaker was treading lightly, digits still, iron control holding every line of him steady. Sideswipe could feel the staccato pulse of his brother's spark close to his questing digits, and got a hissing snarl in his audios for his efforts. The spark twitched further away, and Sideswipe whined involuntarily.

_:Sunny…:_ He called, but got only a vague feeling of protective, murderous intent in response. _:Sunstreaker, we have to get you to a medic.:_

That gleaned a sullen tick of acknowledgement; no medic equaled no protection equaled _no Sideswip_e. Easy enough for Sunstreaker to compute even half-deactivated.

The two slunk down the corridor, avoiding doorways and sticking close to shadowy corners. Red lights flashed dully into existence overhead, and a distant klaxon blared to life. The twins froze, identical expressions of fear, manifested in blatant aggression, twisting over their faceplates in the brief span of darkness between flashes. Optics snapped online, yellow-gold slits of animal instinct, and the two bots slipped silently into defensive positions, one in the rafters, one as bait below.

A slit in the wall to their left blossomed open, and white light shattered into the passage, ricocheting in jagged slashes over metal surfaces. It flashed gold near the floor, and weapons hummed online as the new mechs took up their own defensive positions…all save one.

The shock of the intruder's size was what stayed Sideswipe's hand. The mech did not move with any astonishing agility, nor did was he particularly efficient in checking his surroundings for enemies. His step was heavy, but this was a necessity since it was bearing the weight of that massive silver frame.

Scarlet optics narrowed into glistening slits of cold, unreadable intelligence as Lord Megatron took the hall. He did not need to look in Sideswipe's direction for the twin to know he had been spotted, nor did the Lord of the Decepticons openly aim his weapon to signal 'surrender or death'. All he had to do was enter the confined space of the corridor and stand there, sharp plating glinting in the light, a massive, scarred form, war incarnate in a mortal body, and he had won. His show of force was in his presence - in the hefty fusion cannon on his right arm - and it was enough.

Sideswipe slipped from the ceiling to the floor with a metallic clatter, levering and creeping his way on all fours to his twin's side. Either they would be spared together or die together; their would be no battle. Not that he wouldn't _try_…

But the heavy gaze on his helm weighed down that determination, and Sideswipe lay down next to his twin with a sigh, curling in a gentle spoon around the weak golden frame.

"Who are you?" Megatron's voice did not roll or thunder; it waited, wrapped in blank, rasping inquiry, empty of emotion. It was a carefully modulated tone, with simple words that any Cybertronian could understand, no matter his origin.

Sideswipe answered honestly, his surprise at the initiated conversation immediately overwhelmed with the hope that they would be allowed a medic. "Sideswipe."

"Sideswipe of where, and who is he?" A battered claw as thick as Sideswipe's wrist-joint indicated Sunstreaker's now shivering body.

"Sideswipe of nowhere, and Sunstreaker, my twin. I'll tell you more if you get a medic."

"Your twin." Disbelief, and anger now that honesty from the red twin was assured. "A medic is on his way as we speak." Sideswipe waited for argument, for deals and terms of service, but the larger mech only held himself motionless above their much smaller forms, red optics blazing. Behind him in the bright doorway, shadowy shapes of other mechs stood at attention, but their weapons had been lowered.

Sideswipe turned his attention away from the deadly being not two servo-lengths from him, and focused instead on the aching, fast-fading consciousness of his other half. Sunstreaker was falling into stasis, and his systems were growing steadily colder as the throbs of his spark became more erratic; as he began to show signs of deactivation and spark breech. Their casings had been hastily repaired, and Sideswipe honestly didn't know why he wasn't in the same boat with his twin; a twitching mess of exposed spark energy and leaking internals on the floor. He only knew that he wasn't.

Careful not to jar his brother, the red twin curled even closer against Sunstreaker's ravaged plating, sending warmth seeping into the icy insides, and black digits found twitching golden servos, enclosing them in a hot clasp.

Megatron was still watching; Sideswipe could hear the humming murmur of the gladiator's frame creep closer. But at the moment the red twin couldn't do anything about it, so he didn't care.

* * *

_At the Ark…_

_"Prime…"_ His comm went off. Optimus jerked online, processors whirring and clicking into place. Weapons? Check Mask? Check. Bumblebee? Check-

Wait, _what_? _"Prime!" _His comm link fizzled to life again, static lacing the rough snarl that ripped into his audios. The Prime blinked, still in a confused haze, staring at the bundle of silver plating nestled between his chest plates…which were open. His spark tickled the sparkling's grey frame, reaching beyond his casing to caress Bumblebee's helm and chassis. Optimus felt his systems heating up, a consequence of having his chassis split and his spark revealed to the _open air_. He swallowed, laying his helm back and taking a few calming ventilations before addressing the urgent ping for communication.

He tried to make his vocals sound calm, collected, fully awake, and unbothered by the awkward state of affairs he had found himself in. "This is Optimus Prime speaking."

_"…Right."_ It was Megatron. Frag. _"Decided to reveal to the world you're actually a femme, or did some hero of a bot kick you in the ball bearings?"_

"Niether." Optimus felt his face-plates heat up. "Bumblebee got my chest-plates open. He likes sparks."

_"Didn't take you for a pedophile."_ was the instant, flat response. Optimus rolled his optics, still blushing furiously and very glad the other wasn't there to see it.

"Shut up, Megatron." He mumbled, disengaging his face-mask and running large blue servos over his visage. "What do you want?"

_"There's something you should see."_

"Where?"

_"Here."_ No sass, no sarcastic "Where do you think, idiot?". Optimus carefully navigated the darkness of his quarters, scooped up the slumbering sparkling from his chassis, and laid the tiny form out on the heated surface of his berth. There was no reaction, though Bumblebee's snores increased in volume. The Prime returned his attention to his one-time nemesis.

"When?" Not why. Suspicion of any serious nature was all but dead between them, forcibly squashed and replaced with manufactured trust. It had to be so, in the beginning; their planet could not survive if they did not begin to work together. Now, it was just a result of a friendship Optimus had never expected and now would not allow to fade.

_"Now." _Trust or no trust, Megatron sounded relieved that Optimus was considering coming at all.

"I'll be there." The Prime assured. "I'll bring Prowl with me." _And leave the rest with Bumblebee_, was the unspoken implication.

_"Excellent."_ Somehow, Optimus believed the warlord was referring to more than his imminent arrival.

* * *

_At the Decepticon Base…_

The shuttle doors opened with a pneumatic hiss, steam clouds billowing in pleasant gusts of wet warmth against his plating. Optimus descended the silver walkway, an immediately caught sight of his escort. Among the Decepticons milling about, performing various tasks and clearing space in the hangar bay for the incoming Autobot troops, one stood tall and proud, wings spread, scarlet optics narrowed in a haughty expression that somehow conveyed more warmth and welcome than any smile from the bot could have.

Starscream approached, heeled pedes clacking against the metal flooring, slim blue digits lifted in a simple, blunt greeting. The seeker wasn't one for formality unless it could get him something that direct conversation and cleverness couldn't.

"Prime." His rasping vocalizer bit out in their direction, sharp dentas shredding the syllables so that they emerged from his mouth misshapen and oddly accented. It was common with Vosians; their dialect, among all others, was the least suited to translation of any kind. "This way."

Optimus nodded, trying not to stare at the glossy white wings spread behind the seeker's back, or the way his sleek build bent elegantly at the joints with every step. Seekers were a beautiful race, stunning when well-shined, as it were, but Optimus had always been surprised by the fact that their appearance was far outshone by their prowess in battle… and their eagerness to enter into it. He did not want to offer any opportunity for offense, peace or no, lone seeker or not.

They left the hangar bay side by side, accompanied by no others; Prowl remained with the shuttle, along with a Decepticon officer named Shortstrip. She had pulled the Praxian Second in Command aside immediately to discuss the docking and managing of the foreign Ioconian vessel, obviously distressed to find such a "needy craft", as she put it, in her hangar. Apparently Decepticon vessels were more easily handled and shunted into dock than Autobot ones.

Optimus kept his lip-plates clamped shut behind the security of his battle-mask as he walked, attempting to gauge his escort's mood. Starscream was known to be emotionally flighty; his humors changed quickly and drastically, sometimes resulting in massive misunderstandings that led to crippling headaches. The seeker appeared unusually content at the moment. His optics were half-lidded casually, their dull sheen a sign of relative inactivity. Battle protocols were a token sign of escort; the null rays by the Air Commander's sides were barely on their lowest setting. But there was flicking that told the lie to this carefree facade; a twitch in a wing, a digit flexing spasmodically; Starscream was feeling anything but casual.

For a moment, Optimus was worried. Then he remembered sky-blue digits cradling liquid light, tendrils of brilliant gold licking over clawed servos, and he knew what Starscream was about to ask.

"How is he?" The seeker rasped.

Optimus did not let his chagrin show - he had _almost_ (well, _entirely_, really) thought there was something sinister to Starscream's twitches, but of course the one time he was prepared for betrayal from the seeker was the one time Starscream had purely honorable - and somewhat endearing - intentions. The Prime knew he wanted more than a technical update; otherwise he would've asked someone else. Protective as he was, Optimus could not deny Bumblebee's savior the gift of _knowing_ him rather than _researching_ him - it was, after all, Starscream's right.

With a sigh, the Prime answered. "He likes sparks."

Starscream was silent; Optimus could tell he had the seeker's full attention though the bot feigned only quiet interest.

He continued. "I had to pry him out of my chassis before my departure; my sparkmate-"

"Elita One?" Starscream interjected.

"Yes." Optimus affirmed. "She claims the sparkling has more contact with my - er - intimate areas than she." It was a good tactic that had served him in the past; one that often succeeded in lightening the diplomatic mood. Burning faceplates was an adequate price to pay to see the delighted smirk that lit up the seeker's usually sour features.

"Does she really? That sparkling must hardly ever leave your side."

Optimus cast a half-hearted glare over at the now guffawing seeker, cheeks burning beneath his mask. "_Thank you_ for the _commentary_, Starscream." He ground out, but the seeker only flapped a limp servo at him dismissively. The mood had been set, and the awkwardness of the last few kliks was fast fading.

"Oh come now you big sparkling, don't be sour." The seeker snickered. "Think of it as preparation for vorns of ribbing to come, now that our factions are 'fully integrated'." There was a definite inflection on the last two words; disdain, though Optimus could not see the reasoning behind it.

Deciding to wonder about the scorn later, the Prime continued the conversation. "Don't remind me." He groaned. "I can't imagine living day to day in the same living space as Megatron."

"Thank Primus you won't have to."

"What do you _think_ I do every moment after recharge?" Optimus joked, grateful the seeker couldn't see the hidden grin that was responsible for the crinkling beneath his optics.

"Thank Primus I don't _look_ like that oaf. It's the only thing that could be worse than _living_ with him."

They both laughed loudly; Optimus' deep base chuckles rumbling through the metal surrounding them, Starscream's high rasp shaving his vocalizer to pinpricks of wiring. Insulting Megatron was something they were both accustomed to. The Prime felt they were both being incredibly immature for the sake of interfaction relations, but at this point it there was no one to see, so it didn't matter. Not to him, anyway.

The walls of the Decepticon Headquarters oozed by on either side, grey and blank, scrubbed roughly so that the glowing fluorescent strips above barely gleamed in their surface. Ahead of them, a lift materialized out of a similarly blank wall; circular doors irised open, and they stepped - heavily, in Optimus' case - onto the thick platform.

"He's not speaking."

Starscream's frame stiffening was audible. "What?"

Optimus sighed, feeling guilty for speaking and not knowing why. He had to tell Starscream, before the seeker learned by less savory methods that would pit his ire against the Autobots. "Bumblebee. His vocalizer will not function. Ratchet believes it is a side effect of the injuries he sustained during the cycle of his birth."

The seeker's words were slightly cold. "Is there anything to be done?"

Optimus had been planning to wait until the opportune time, following Prowl's advice, but it was now or never. "We were hoping you could tell us."

"You have Perceptor, Ratchet, and fragging _Wheeljack_ at your disposal." The Seeker's tone was cold, dripping acid. The curse was unexpected, as was the vehemence behind it. Optimus shifted warily, careful not to activate battle protocols. It was so strange, how the moment had shifted from camaraderie to bitter dislike in mere astroseconds. "Why would you require my assistance?"

"You took his initial scans."

"Your _junior medic_ did that, Prime." The mech denied.

"_You_ took his initial scans."

"I was the _second_ to touch him, if you recall." The bitterness was tangible; it stung against Optimus plating.

The Prime did not back down. He reared to his full height, every movement slow and as non-threatening as he could make it, while still conveying the solid truth the Decepticon _needed_ to hear. Cobalt optics narrowed, servos clenching at his sides, Optimus spoke. "You were there at his _birth_. First Aid may have carried the spark, but _you_ were the first to see him. Ratchet believes you have knowledge that could help. He has no other theories."

There was silence. The lift hummed as it rose swiftly through empty air, propelled upward at speeds they could not judge while inside of it. Lights on the wall flickered as their indicated location rose with them. Then rough vocals gritted out six syllables into the still, tense air.

"The damage is minor."

Optimus froze. Starscream's dark features were angled away; there was a scarlet glow to indicate his optics were online, but the Prime could not tell what the mech's expression was.

"…You will not assist in this…'minor' repair?" _The damage is minor_.

"I will not."_ The damage is minor_. There had been such concern on the seeker's part. Why now was there such cold, callous disregard? Optimus barely noticed a slight jerk as the lift brushed past a rough patch in the shaft; barely saw the flicker as the lights around him spasmed of and on.

He turned aside so that the seeker would not, in some slight manner even, realize his words had incited shock, confusion…and anger. "What can be so important about the circumstances of his creation that you will ignore-?" He asked quietly, steadying the beat of his systems and carefully modulating his emotions. He cared too much for the sparkling, he realized. Acting diplomatic was almost second nature to a Prime; it should not be this difficult to refrain from physically attacking the seeker not two servos'-length from him, even though the subject matter was rather…personal. He would have to distance himself, in the future.

Starscream's next words made him question the possibility of that future containing Starscream _in it_. "Better he learn to deal with his defects at a time when he can assume them to be normal."

"You could heal-!" The Prime began to growl, anger roiling in his tanks, flashes of a silver face filled with joy jolting through his processor.

"_Enough_, Prime!" Starscream whirled on him, optics narrowed into blazing slits, claws unsheathed, dentas bared in a snarl. The seeker's wings snapped open with a whoosh, scrapping harshly against Optimus' plating as they arched. The dark lips moved in sharp, ragged motions, glossa flicking out like a black, glittering knife. "Shut your do-gooding _mouth_." The dirty scent of charging weaponry stung the Prime's sensors.

They both blinked, and turned quietly away - almost at the same time, Optimus thought.

Habitual diplomacy saved the Prime from making any major blunders during the duration of their time in the lift.

* * *

He would have thought it impossible, but when the doors irised open, all thoughts of Bumblebee and Starscream's refused assistance were wiped clean from Optimus' mind. Instead, weapons flared to life, servos clanking out of sight, replaced by humming blasters - blue digits pressed over the lips of the weapons, and Starscream rammed his entire body along Optimus' plating; unless he wanted to twine their bodies even closer, gears and plating edges catching, he couldn't move forward.

The screams, he realized, were angry - not terrified. His protective protocols simmered, and the Prime himself was far from placated, but he could distinguish the fury in the cries emanating from the cells before him. Enemies, not victims. He had been so close to assuming the worst of his allies…yet again.

Before him, Megatron stood. The Decepticon was a head taller than he, scarred and silver, glittering in the dim lighting of the Decepticon's new brig. Scarlet optics watched his movements quietly; Megatron had taken to assessing Optimus every chance the Con got. Optimus couldn't tell what he was looking for, but it appeared that, as with every other time, he found it.

A wide, sharp smile split the pale lips apart, and red optics crinkled with humor.

"Now, now, Prime," The gravelly voice rang like a blaster shot in the confined quarters. Optimus wondered briefly and unseriously if having glitched vocals was a prerequisite of being a Decepticon officer. A sort of bleeting snort from his left caught his attention, and he turned to see the dark blue and pearly white sheen of Soundwave's plating studiously bent over the control panel of the nearest cell, shoulders almost _too_ still. Immediately clamping down his processors (a habit one got into when the Decepticon telepath was around) Optimus turned his attention back to Megatron.

The warlord's fanged smile ticked into a smirk under his appraisal, and he pushed away from his languid position propped against the wall. "Let us show you what you came here for." The Decepticon leader murmured mysteriously, and gestured to the cells. Optimus nodded, and turned to look.

Before him, two figures prowled and sprawled in their respective cells. Yellow optics glared at him with a fury no neutral was stupid enough to exhibit. Plating rattled in an instinctive, almost childish show of aggression.

"Primus…" Optimus breathed.

"Not quite, Prime. Not quite."

* * *

_Author's note: _Well, there it is. I'm still not quite satisfied with it, but some things you just can't fix perfectly. :p Yay! Got to meet Megatron _and_ the twins! I still love Scalpel, and Shockwave is similarly amusing to me, if you can't tell. Poor Hook is always getting the short end of the stick. I hope you all liked it. Please review! I need more... T-T


	5. The Agonies of Secrets

Author's Note: I have a new list of terms, though some of them don't correlate with the common use of Transformer's terms. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot.

Chapter 4

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

* * *

Sideswipe yawned, stretching the stiff intricacies of his mouth. His blasters aimed unerringly toward the humming energy shield of his cell, useless against the mechs on the other side until the barrier was deactivated. His aft felt sore where it had collided with the cold metal floor, and his legs ached with rust and the friction his scars caused when he moved. He was sitting with his back to the cell wall, one leg bent against his chassis, the other splayed crookedly out before him. On either side of him steel loomed tall and dark, almost smugly defying escape. Before him, the purple field crackled and spat, sizzling against the floor not two servo-lengths from his pede in violet sparks of light.

Sunstreaker was conscious. His twin's own careful assessment of their surroundings, broadcast almost unintentionally into their bond, plagued the red twin's processors.

Beyond the purple field, Sunstreaker could see Lord Megatron and the strange mech were talking animatedly, but could not hear their words. The audio into the prison had been silenced long ago. Sunstreaker's optics flicked over faceplates and masks, roaming gleaming, clean armor with a stab of envy that ached in their sparks and caused Sideswipe to chuckle. A promise was made between them, and Sunstreaker continued to examine, warm satisfaction and quivering expectation providing a steady rhythm through them both.

Megatron was silver, black accents peeking out from beneath heavy plating. Large shoulders and arms; a thick chassis; the waist slimming into heavy hips and flat, wide pedes. He stood almost at attention beside a mech who neared his height but not his mass, his scarred armor flared impressively. Sunstreaker found that detail interesting, and Sideswipe sent a query.

_:He's a gladiator,:_ A symbol cut in a clean, circular line into Lord Megatron's back, beneath a broad left shoulder. It was worn, as though he had tried to have it ground away, but claiming signs like that were branded into a mech's programming, growing naturally in the armor as it healed and improved. A new back-plate would only be indented and carved into over time by the mech's own systems.

_:So?:_ Sideswipe wasn't seeing the intrigue. _:So he's a gladiator. What's caught your eye? His good looks?:_

A mental thwap and the vague, snide thought that Sunstreaker found very few things attractive beyond a mirror was the only response he got.

His golden twin reexamined the flared armor for Sideswipe's benefit. _:Gladiator mechs have heavy armor. Why's he lifting it all?:_

_:Showing off?: _An image of Lord Megatron as he had been in the corridor where he discovered them was reintroduced into the bond. Tall, confident, utterly in control, red optics gleaming consideringly. In the image, the mech's armor was flatter than a scraplet among warframes.

_:Hmph.:_ Sunstreaker was even more intrigued, but his examination continued grudgingly.

Red armor glistened almost wetly beneath dim lighting, and again the jealousy resurfaced. The mech was handsomely shaped, but had that look that suggested he had been remodeled for war rather than born into it, as the gladiator looked to have been. Again, the shoulders were broad. They flowed in sculpted form into thick forearms and down relatively thin wrists, before ending in comparatively small but sturdy servos and digits. Glass decorated a blocky chassis in neat squares, and beneath, angular pelvic plating rested on silver hips. The mech's pedes were thick and square, decorated a dark blue like his shins. Sunstreaker approved; it accented silver and red well.

Sideswipe smirked to himself; Sunstreaker's knack for spotting beauty had gotten them into some trouble, in recent cycles, but he couldn't help but delight in the fact that his twin was expressing himself again, rather than sinking into the cold, expressionless mech he had been-

He cut off the thread of thought with an angry burst of static, instantly wary. He felt through the bond, and came up against what he had feared.

Sunstreaker's attention was focused intently upon him, carefully blank. The examination had been cut short; his twin was now concerned only with _him_. It was as though the entire being of Sunstreaker was hanging on his thoughts, waiting for those next words with a carefully modulated hatred that was wires short of bursting into the biggest slaughter the golden twin could contrive. Sunstreaker _hated_ what they had left behind. The weight of his attention made Sideswipe uncomfortable, but a flicker of something…_else_ flitted through his circuits. Sunstreaker was picky about the things he allowed to hold his interest. If it wasn't worth it, it didn't get his time. That Sideswipe could distract him from all else at a time like this was…exhilarating, despite the (slight) guilt he felt for doing so. They were in a dangerous position, after all, and he had let his guard down, pulling his twin with him…

_:You're thinking too much.:_ Sunstreaker interrupted bluntly, unexpectedly, and within their bond Sideswipe could feel the black and gold helm tilt, his own optics twitching as Sunstreaker's narrowed with a mix of diverse emotions, the most prominent of which was dark amusement. _:They've stopped talking.:_

Sideswipe sent back a grateful acknowledgement, and opened his optics. He didn't remember closing them, but the difference between watching the world through his twin's eyes and seeing through his own was startling.

He saw the gleam of scarred grey armor, as well as the glitter of red, but he didn't see the detail Sunstreaker noticed. It was all almost instinctively ignored as he examined faceplates, looking for expressions and indications of action where his twin saw shape and texture.

The two mechs were watching them carefully - him in particular, it seemed. Their expressions were neutral, and they showed no signs of aggression. Sunstreaker relayed that he had curled against the wall, conserving warmth and protecting his repairs, possibly causing them to turn their attention to the more active prisoner for questioning.

The purple shield flickered as changes to the cell environment were made, and Sideswipe heard as the red giant spoke.

"Greetings. My name is Optimus Prime. What is yours?" His vocals were a deep, stately rumble that instantly demanded respect. Sideswipe cheerfully denied it any.

The red twin frowned outwardly, honestly confused. "My what?"

"Designation." Megatron growled, arms folding across his broad chassis, pedes shifting into a more relaxed stance.

"Yes." The red mech looked a bit more intrigued, and Sideswipe didn't know why. True, the twins were relatively ignorant, but no bot had found _that_ interesting before. He frowned, deciding to show a pleasant front since the mech was obviously trying to approach this diplomatically.

"My, uh, _name_ is Sideswipe. How're you?" Sunstreaker's cruel humor hummed into his spark as the red mech blinked, apparently not expecting such concern for his wellbeing. Sideswipe forced his customary smirk into a wide, warm smile, waiting politely for a response.

"I am well." To his credit, the mech recovered fast. "And you?"

"Can't complain."

_:'Cause if I did I'd get __**shot**_.: He added. In the adjacent cell to his right, Sunstreaker's systems ground together in an angry cacophony. "Optimus Prime's" optics flicked curiously between them, and beside him Megatron grunted as though only just realizing something. Sideswipe didn't like that combination; these mechs weren't stupid. He turned up the charm, subspacing his blasters and reclining in a languid sprawl against the wall behind him, legs crossed, servos behind his helm.

"So, uh, what do you want?"

The two mechs returned their attention to him, and Megatron's brows jumped upward in disbelief. Optimus Prime's optics showed nothing but polite interest, though they narrowed slightly.

"We were wondering if you could answer that question yourself, actually."

"Well, how about a cube of high-grade and a couple of femmes to start off?"

The silver mech snorted. "Watch yourself, brat."

Okay, there was definitely something strange going on. "What's a "brat"?" Sideswipe asked coldly, irritation battling with curiosity. The sounds were unfamiliar; definitely not Cybertronian in any sense. Alien languages weren't often used in common speech on the home planet, or so he'd been told, but regardless, he didn't know it.

"Something unpleasant on a distant planet. Which _you_ will be if you aren't careful." The gladiator was remarkably cool for the acidic remarks he was making. As ever, his optics were calculating, but there was an almost too calm looseness to his limbs. The red mech beside him seemed stiff and cautious by comparison, blue optics watching his companion's every move as though prepared to take him down at a moment's notice. Strange, for apparent allies.

Sideswipe decided to rev the charm again, so things settled down enough for him to…evaluate. That sounded good. He smirked. "If it'd get me away from _you_, I'd take any chance." Okay, so it wasn't the most charismatic thing he'd ever said. He hadn't really _meant_ to say it, either, but somehow his glossa had played away from him. That too had gotten them into trouble before.

"Even if it removed you from your _twin_?"

Cold fear bit into his spark; his smile stiffened, withered, and died. There was a triumphant emphasis on the last word. His tanks toiled with unease, and he swallowed his next insult, which was a pity since it'd been a good one. But deference came before revenge, since the silver mech seemed very capable of separating them further than a single cell.

The air was tense; he could almost feel the aggression washing over his armor. Optimus Prime watched silently, allowing Megatron free reign of the interrogation, though his expression was faintly disapproving. Sideswipe could use that; appeal to Optimus' obviously more charitable nature. A prime was equal to a lord, right? He thought he'd heard that somewhere. Maybe the Prime could override Megatron, if Sideswipe played his cards right and touched the mech's pitying spark with their _tragic_ history-

"Medic." The single word did not come from him. It spread icy dread through his circuits. He choked, something lodging in his vocalizer. The firm, condescending hiss of Sunstreaker's voice rang out in the sudden silence, but inwardly the golden twin's side of the bond shivered with barely controlled fury born of terror. Seperation. Sunstreaker's worst nightmare, though he would never explain why. His fear drove him out of sullen silence.

"What?" Megatron's expression suggested he'd been presented with a living mech and told to use him as a paintbrush. Obviously, he hadn't expected Sunstreaker to _move_, let alone speak. Well, that wasn't exactly unreasonable, since Sideswipe hadn't expected it either.

Sideswipe felt his twin's unease to continue the conversation, and immediately conformed to his twin's plan. Whatever it took to take their attention away from the increasingly uncomfortable Sunstreaker, at this point. He could do honesty, on occasion. He just didn't think it would _work_, this time.

"We needed a medic, as you saw. Somebot repaired us to partial functionality in the city outskirts, but the job was patchy at best and attended to only the worst of our injuries."

"How did you get aboard?" Simple and to the point, now that honesty was forthcoming. Just as he had been in the corridor. Sideswipe still didn't like him.

"Same bot brought us; got a couple of seekers to shift our plating up into the science lab you call a medbay."

"Actually, that _was_ the science lab." There was a definite smirk to the silver lips.

Sideswipe gaped, stunned. "Why were we in the _Science lab_!? We had _injuries_!" He shrieked, barely noticing the two mechs flinch under the audial assault. He had jolted onto all fours, staring up at the two interrogators from the cell floor. It was less than dignified, but he didn't care.

"Because you let _Scalpel_ find you." Growled out as though it explained everything. It really didn't, and his bewilderment turned to anger.

"Oh, yes. That makes _sense_!" He spat, already rising from the floor, taking a battle stance out of habit rather than intention. His servos clenched, and he grit his dentas as rage continued to broil, each throb intensified by his twin as his feelings awoke Sunstreaker's. "With our injuries, we _let_ him find us. What mech would bring a wounded bot into a _science lab_?" It stung. Their plan, hazy as it was, tangled with their agony and born in a brief moment of clear thinking in a dreamlike fog, had consisted of barely more than relying on other's charity. Their pride had been nettled, but it was survival, so they could bear it. The fact that even that plan had failed was too much.

Sideswipe could control himself. It was Sunstreaker who hid his feelings because he could not channel them. It was Sunstreaker who lost his temper, relying on Sideswipe's relatively unflappably warm character to distract himself. When Sideswipe lost his control, driven beyond caring who he hurt and why, he had no one to rely on; no one to sink into and simply _feel_, to wade into calming, soothing murmurs of _"wait" _and _"think"_. His bursting emotions drove into Sunstreaker, who was helpless against them. The golden twin's rage was instantly ignited against whatever had incurred his brother's wrath, and Sunstreaker was roused from his reserved dormancy.

It was always beautiful to see, in the moment. The way golden armor sleeked down flat against silver protoform; the way yellow eyes flashed and speared their target through. The way he prowled, each step languid but filled with intent, servos relaxed until they began to rip and tear. Energon flowing over glossy gold, a kind of protective fury few discerned in the golden twin bared for all to see, if they could only understand. Warmth seeping between them, as it was always meant to, without walls to hide behind or careful dodging of dangerous topics.

He could only imagine he looked like a lovestruck fool when Sunstreaker went to work, but the energon on his own digits after the fact said otherwise, though he couldn't remember which mechs he had torn apart, or when, or why. That was when the beauty inevitably faded, and Sideswipe, as the more balanced twin, saw the gory carnage and suddenly felt disgust instead of admiration.

It was happening again, this mirroring and strengthening of rage, this descent into bloodlust; the berserker fury that had proved their greatest asset in the past. Sideswipe could feel his internals roasting with heat, and his vision was flickering with notations for battle; marking weaknesses and cataloguing possibilities. Sunstreaker was deathly quiet, but he too had risen, leaning against his cell wall with a terribly fake nonchalance. Sideswipe could feel it through their bond; a ghost of sensation along his left side where his brother's body pressed against steel.

It was too much. Anger, agony, regret, mourning, sadness; it all reverberated between them, and they fell into the pit of emotion gratefully, eager to escape the disappointment and pain that constantly plagued them since their desertion.

_:We ran away.:_

_:We had to.:_

_:Nothing is better.:_

_:Nothing could ever be worse.:_

_:We ran away…:_

_:…We had to.:_

* * *

"The Prime thinks me a soft-sparked sparkling lover with angst issues."

Thundercracker blinked. "Why?"

Starscream's rasping drawl was very near now, directly in front of and above him. "Possibly because I acted like one."

"I repeat: why?"

The elder seeker sighed, and Thundercracker heard the screech of a chair being dragged over to his berthside, then the clanking clatter of a mech seating himself. He didn't look up; the reports on the data pad he was reading were due for review by the end of the cycle. He had read only a few of the twenty-seven monstrosities, and the cycle was nearly finished. Starscream would have to be content with only part of his attention.

The blue seeker lay flat on his stomach in a languid position few Decepticons would believe he was relaxed enough for. He had a reputation among the ranks of being stiff, professional, and efficient, and he liked it. Among his trine members, however, in their personal trio of connected quarters, he could allow himself a little relaxation; a little freedom. Hence the decorative artifacts and paraphernalia of knick knacks that littered his cramped quarters. They all had a purpose for being there, unlike the baubles Skywarp often collected; Thundercracker liked to collect memories; things like a vidfeed he'd watched as a youngling, or a still pic of a mech he had known. Even classic sparkling games such as _Tumbling Mat_ or _Dance Studio_ found their place beneath his berth, where they would be protected from roughhousing trinemates or groggy Thundercrackers pulled without warning from recharge.

The data pad in his servos was his favorite. He didn't know why, save that it had been with him since his entering into the Decepticons. It was his first tool, on which warnings, alerts, pings, and personal messages would appear from officers, fellow grunt soldiers, and the like. Now, he downloaded all the workload he could afford to bring home with him onto its relatively cramped drives, such as the reports from fellow security enforcers he was now reading.

The text scrolled by beneath his touch. To his right, Starscream gave a snort; the one that usually indicated he was disgusted with something. Given his recent admission, it was probably himself.

"He told me the sparkling cannot speak."

Thundercracker paused, claw poised over the delicate glass screen that contained his workload. With a groan of his joints, he rolled smoothly onto his back, rearing into a sitting position so as not to remove pressure from his wings. The datapad clinked lightly as he set it on his small desk to what had, only astro-seconds ago, been his left, digits withdrawing to entwine with his other servo between his knees.

"How is the little one?" He asked, honestly curious, but also wishing to introduce a less painful aspect into the discussion he knew Starscream was about to initiate. His trinemate rarely approached him for any serious conversation involving anything remotely personal. When he did, it was always important and likely volatile, so something pleasant to revisit later would be useful in ending the matter without any bitterness.

"Apparently happy. The Autobots do not relinquish him until a quarter vorn has past, so I won't know for sure until that time."

"You could always visit. Skywarp and I would be glad to accompany…"

But Starscream was shaking his head. The seeker sat heavily in Thundercracker's single chair, servos clenched between his knees, spinal bent and head bowed down. His wings were carefully upright, but if they were to express honest emotions, as they were meant to do, they would be drooping too. Irritation and frustration played for a moment in the scarlet optics, but were gone just as quickly.

"The truce is precarious. Prime all but pulled his weapons on me in the lift, though I can hardly blame the fool since I was astro-seconds away from doing the same. If I were to 'visit' the Autobots now, we might be shot for suspected machinations."

"Cliffjumper is dead." Thundercracker reminded.

"Others who share his suspicions and beliefs remain. It would upset all that we have managed to achieve. The Neutrals are anxious for peace; they will not tolerate another war."

Thundercracker frowned, shifting his legs and crossing his pedes beneath him as the joints began to ache from prolonged stillness. Seekers were meant to move, often, and he had been reading for half the solar cycle. "Have they acquired a means of threatening us now?"

"The neutrals are well capable of destroying either the Autobots or the Decepticons. They cannot rid themselves of both. That, and our helpful assistance and resources, is the only reason why we are allowed to remain here, on Cybertron."

It was a surprising and slightly disturbing revelation. The thought of leaving their planet, so recently revived, made Thundercracker's tanks roil unpleasantly. He frowned. Yes, to be cast out was a horrible thought, but…

"I suppose we shall have to wait for his arrival, then." He remarked cooly, decided. Starscream's helm lifted slightly, and he felt the other's suspicious gaze scouring his plating. "After all, political boarders and concessions always come before the rights of individual Cybertronians."

"This isn't about that." His trine mate snapped, and Thundercracker turned his glare into scarlet optics.

"It seems so to me." He asserted. He had joined the cause for freedom, not for peace. He desired peace strongly, but at the cost of that which so many had died to achieve? Not a chance. He would gladly enter 'enemy' territory to prove that freedom had been won, political dangers or no. "You want to see the one who ended the war; who revived our hopes and solidified so many dreams. You have that right. Don't hide your fears behind political excuses."

"You assume much." Starscream's voice had darkened to a hiss, and his gaze had narrowed.

"You came to me." He paused. _"Accept my perspective, or leave."_

"I did." The elder seeker did not acknowledge his silent comm.

"Take my advice and visit. The way things are progressing, it won't do any harm-"

"I refused to assist in his repair." There it was. The real reason Starscream had come to see him.

Thundercracker nodded, turning away. "A reasonable decision."

"But one the Prime did not, and cannot, understand."

"He is ignorant of the circumstances."

"My decision aches, and my position in the eyes of others suffers for it." Starscream became somewhat poetic when he allowed himself to be honest. When he opened and unfurled in the minimal way he did before Thundercracker's optics, revealing shards and slivers of the mech beneath the mask. The mech Thundercracker was not ashamed to say he admired.

"You think he thinks you weak?"

"Yes." Without hesitation.

"And his opinion matters because he is the Prime?"

"Yes."

Thundercracker considered. Starscream needed the respect of others to enforce his authority where his talents and capability could not. He could no longer use the fear of his enemies as a substitute, since those enemies were now allies.

"Perhaps," He began slowly, carefully weighing and tasting his words. "It is time for a different approach?"

Starscream's profile, dark and shadowed in his peripheral vision, stiffened. There were a few seconds of silence during which neither of them moved, and Thundercracker wondered if he had gone too far.

Then Starscream spoke. "I suspected as much. I…wished to have your opinion before I…proceeded." The words sounded like smashed glass bits the air commander was being forced to cough up.

Thundercracker nodded silently, not wishing to say anything more. He didn't like these conversations, though he knew they were of great help to them both. He hated his objectiveness; wanted the opportunity to be as immature and companionable as Skywarp; free from the difficult responsibility that accompanied being a friend to the air commander. But it was precisely _because_ his words were objective, spreading his friend's and his own faults out for both to see, suggesting possible ways for improvement, that he had reached this level of intimacy; of friendship. A place that only precious few mechs could claim to have experienced from the second in command.

He expected his commander to leave quietly and bitterly, as was his custom. The attempt to soften the discussion had failed abysmally, and now that the solution was plainly in sight, there was nothing left to discuss. Nothing left but to retreat and absorb the painful reality. Thundercracker swallowed, imagining that it was his resentment and disappointment in himself that he was choking down.

Warm digits found his shoulder. He froze, optics wide, vision fizzling with shock along with the static that bleated from his lips. Starscream's servo trembled slightly, minutely, before sliding further down his back, to the base of his left wing. Sensation buzzed and feathered into life at the five points of contact, and Thundercracker gulped heavily, steadfastly gazing at nothing, his focus entirely on the place where the tips of sky-blue servos met dark plating. There was a caress; a gentle, almost tentative companionship that tickled over his wingspan.

Then the touch was gone. Starscream's frame was silhouetted in the open door of his quarters for a brief second before the panels slid shut. The sound of their collision echoed in the dim stillness; a metallic hiss and clatter of old porthole mechanics that ended in a definitive _shink_.

Thundercracker's vents released air with a slow, tremulous breath. Trembling black digits found the smooth metal of his datapad, removing it noisily from his desktop, and he settled back down to finish his reports.

* * *

Author's note: Okay, I was very excited about that scene. For those who were wondering, Thundercracker doesn't think it's romantic. It may seem so from his perspective, but there's a reason for that, as, currently, there is for all the strangeness you might see. For example: the twins, or Optimus. They may seem "off" to you, but there is a method to the madness, I promise.  
Hope you enjoyed!

Please review! Feedback is very helpful with the construction of the story, and also motivates me to post more chapters. :)


	6. Emergence and Discovery

Author's Note: Hey there! Last chapter I'm loading before traveling to Minneapolis! Things start to pick up a bit in this one, so I hope the change is welcome. :) Each chapter will have a quote from this point on, usually from one of the characters _in_ that chapter, though the quote itself isn't necessarily present.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs! (Yes, Blackjack is mine, in all his villainous glory.)

* * *

Chapter Five

"Life is a gift worth suspicion. No god would give us something so precious for _free_." -Blackjack

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Joor: half an hour_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

* * *

_Somewhere beneath the ruins of Praxus..._

It was dark. Shadows licked along vague, indistinct shapes, dripping from the corners of a high ceiling. Jagged, gaping holes in the walls swam with ebony murk, leading to dark tunnels and caved in passages. The chamber was in ruins; rust dusted the floor, colorless in the blackness. Cracks bit into corners and slithered through heavy metal support beams, nipping at the bolts that held the structures together.

It was sturdy enough for Blackjack's purposes. He had never had any trouble seeing in the dark.

Beneath the dark mech's weight, trapped between his heavy blue thighs, a black and purple form writhed. The floor under them both was slick with energon; the bright liquid bubbled from the imprisoned mech's torn throat, chassis, and back, trickling in heavy streams from his slim waist, which was ripped open, exposing sensitive internals to the open air. Scattered to either side were the remains of a majestic pair of glossy wings, battered and speckled with blue droplets. Scarlet optics fluttered weakly, the light within them dulled by pain. Smooth silver lips trembled, coated wetly with the mech's fluids.

Blackjack watched the display impassively, holding the shuddering servos firmly against the slick floor, lowering his helm closer to his victim's exhausted faceplate's in order for the wounded mech to hear him clearly.

"Are you ready to speak?" He asked quietly, hissing past his facemask.

Red optics flickered brighter, casting a wavering glow over Blackjack's angular chassis, and the plump mouth bared sharp denta in a defiant snarl. It vanished, transformed into a shrieking wail of agony as Blackjack's third servo slipped with deceptive care into the mech's middle, stroking bleeding tubes and brushing up gently against the mech's opened fuel tank. The mutilated mech writhed, bucking his chassis, frantically trying to flee from Blackjack's questing digits. The raw internals twitched and guttered grotesquely.

The sadist let a cold, fanged smile creep over his features, eyeing his shuddering victim's wet insides with dark amusement. The claws of two of his servos slipped out of sight beneath scarred chassis armor, soon becoming visible again through the glass of a golden cockpit as they fondled a silver spark chamber.

"I need to know," Blackjack purred, bending low above the other's chassis and pressing his helm lovingly against his victim's, lips brushing an audial. "Where my twins have gone."

The seeker stiffened at his intimate touch, optics shuttering tightly, lips clamping shut in dreading expectation. A trickle of lubricant fell from his optic corner, sliding between their touching cheeks. Blackjack allowed himself another smile.

"Skywarp…" He hissed, clenching his servos tighter, chuckling as the wingless seeker gasped. "No one will find you here. I have no doubt they are experiencing…_troubles_ of their own; my twins are volatile creatures, and the scrambling packs I installed in their processors cannot be helping matters. They may have even _killed_ your friends by now, all because you wouldn't let me save them..."

Skywarp's intakes hissed out a high sound, as close to a sob as the seeker's brave facade would allow. There was an audible gulp, and Blackjack almost heard the cogs in the seeker's processors turning.

"I've never seen your brats before in my _life_." The words were wheezed from between clenched fangs; an obvious play for time. Blackjack smiled against the mech's audial, and ripped an energon line loose.

If he thought the seeker had been wailing before, he was wrong. Long, agonized keens ripped free from Skywarp's mouth, unfortunately quite close to Blackjack's audial. They shrieked through the air, unbelievably loud in the stillness; eerie agony ringing within the depths of featureless darkness.

Blackjack cursed as the body beneath him convulsed; the seeker was smaller without the added mass of his wings, but the size his race bestowed on him was still formidable compared to Blackjack's. There was a good reason it took all four of the sadist's arms and both his sturdy legs to hold the wounded mech down.

"How does it feel," He hissed vindictively between the flier's convulsions, servos denting metal wrists and shoulders. "To be alone and powerless? To lay in the dark after so many cycles of surviving the worst that life could throw at you, too damaged to flee, and know that there is nothing to do but die? To _not have_ the agonizing opportunity to bid farewell to your loved ones?"

The convulsions had lessened as he spoke. The seeker was now only faintly shuddering, ragged ventilations hissing against overheated internals. The energy coating both their frames steamed and sizzled unpleasantly.

Blackjack swiftly readjusted his hold so that he could move one arm freely. His newly freed servo crept up the seeker's side, into transformation seems and over neck cables in a mockery of a lover's embrace, until it finally stroked ins slow, smooth brushes over the mech's trembling optic shutters.

"But you know what, Skywarp?" He rasped, mesmerized by the sight of his dark claw against the seeker's unblemished optic lid. "At least it is a simple death. Think of it: there is nothing left for you but deactivation at my hand. Also," He continued reasonably, "No one who cares or respects you will see you beg for your life; only I will see that."

The silver lips were trembling, though he could tell the seeker was doing his best to still them. There was lubricant trickling from Skywarp's optics; hot tears that sent shivers of delight up Blackjack's spinal struts.

Blackjack had never understood that; the mannerisms mechs from earth carried back with them were so foreign to him. He hadn't bothered asking Skywarp what "brats" had meant; the word obviously referred to his twins. The seeker had displayed so many alien characteristics during his agony. It was disgusting.

Blackjack pushed aside his revulsion, and bent low once again to deliver his final message.

"My master wants his property back, seeker, and I want my legacy. Tell me where they are."

* * *

_At the Decepticon Base..._

The bauble was moving. Back and forth, the two end balls clicked, knocking against the three middle balls and sending momentum through to continue their movement. The balls were suspended by silver strings on a slender rack; a human design created according to Cybertronian specs. It was a gift from Soundwave at the beginning of the peacetime conferences with Optimus Prime, and Megatron still hadn't figured out the purpose behind it. Perhaps it was meant to symbolize the two leaders' difficulties in communicating through lackeys? Megatron was one end ball, and Optimus the other, and they…No, he still didn't understand.

With a sigh, he slumped further in his seat, eyeing the knickknack atop his desk with a baleful eye, and cursing the injections Hook had given him. His repair nanites, over many vorns of combat, had become less than efficient. They required specialized boosters to do their job properly. The only side-effect was that his judgment, cognitive operations, and overall intelligence was impaired for the duration of the boosters' "stay" in his systems. Optimus had laughed when he heard, and said something stupid about Megatron being "high".

Speaking of the Prime, a deeply pitched yelp caught his attention. The Prime was seated on Megatron's plainly furnished berth, probably unaware that he was in the Decepticon leader's _personal_ quarters rather than his _office_. If he _had_ known, he would probably be blushing, despite the context of the situation. Prime was like that; incredibly proper and hyper-aware of others' privacy, particularly the ways in which he had _breached_ that privacy. _Starscream_ would have lounged on the berth as if he owned it, full knowing it was no office couch. Starscream would smirk at him, daring Megatron to be the first to insinuate that something was amiss, so that Starscream could be the first to be "scandalized" that Megatron had such dirty things on his processors.

Megatron blinked, ran that sentence through his filters, and was honestly surprised when it came back as completely sensible and logical.

Another yelp reminded him of the reason he'd turned his helm in the direction of his berth in the first place, and he turned his attention back again just in time to see Hook applying another weld to the Prime's neck cables. The medic was grumbling and muttering under his breath, optics narrowed in irritation, plating ruffled and unsettled in the presence of both faction leaders. The Prime was all but pressing his chassis to his knees on the berth, hunching to allow the medic access to his throat. He looked extremely uncomfortable.

Megatron smirked, fingering his own patches and a couple of new gouges in his armor. Who would have thought the upstart prisoners could escape the cell and launch an attack? He hadn't, and, judging by his squawk, neither had Prime.

Who would have thought that such "talented" intruders could go down so fast, either? He certainly had. By the carefully controlled and intentionally single sucker punch he had delivered to the red twin's face, so had Prime.

The doors irised open, snapping his stuttering thought processes like a thread, and the very seeker he had been recently considering sauntered in.

Except, he _didn't_ saunter. Usually Starscream had a definitively feminine strut, hips swaying, each move graceful. Despite his distinctly masculine method of attack on and off the battlefield, this delicate bearing gave him a reputation of being "femmish", weak, and sultry. Megatron did not share this opinion, having been persuaded by various attempted assassinations that Starscream was indeed very male and very much confident in that fact. This was one of the reasons that only Megatron and Starscream (plus the air commander's trine mates when they were present) were the ones to laugh when an insult regarding the seeker's masculinity was made.

Starscream's entrance was without his customary vanity. It was stiff and short, as though he were forcing himself to approach an execution squad. Sky-blue servos hung against slim hips, clenched so tightly Megatron could hear the joints creaking from his seat. He almost didn't recognize Starscream's dark faceplates, so twisted was the seeker's expression.

In the time it took for Starscream to reach his desk, Megatron had determined the look to be a grimace.

They both stared at one another, waiting; Megatron, because he'd rather not set off the emotional bomb his Second in Command had apparently become, and Starscream, because…well, Megatron didn't know (one never knew with his Second), but he wished the seeker would reconsider and just speak his mind.

Finally, Optimus' voice broke the silence. "Oh. Hello, Starscream." _Autobot manners save the day again_, or so the Decepticon saying _would_ go when Megatron proclaimed it their new faction motto that evening. But _seriously_, that had been quite well timed.

The seeker's reply was less pleasing, mostly because he didn't address it to the Prime. Clawed digits dug into Megatron's desk as the seeker lunged down, planting his servos against the heavy steel surface and leaning _far_ too far forward. "We need to talk." He rasped, directly into Megatron's face. The Decepticon Leader in question raised an optic ridge at the invasion of his space.

"Oh?"

"Yes."

Refusing to be the mech who backed away (and so receiving a blast of hot intakes from the seeker's famously overheating vents), Megatron cast a furtive glance in Optimus' direction. The Prime looked puzzled, but far from suspicious. Still, to retreat into privacy when Starscream had already so _foolishly_ presented such a dramatic need for conversation… "Speak." He ordered decisively, finding the seeker's scarlet gaze and holding it firmly. He immediately felt an instinctive urge to crawl beneath his desk in order to escape the glare he received, but mega-orns of practice enabled him to dismiss the reaction with ease, despite the boosters coursing through his systems.

"We need to talk..._alone_." The seeker corrected through gritted denta. If _that_ wasn't blatant, Megatron didn't know what was. Was the seeker _trying_ to incite Autobot suspicions?

The lord of the Decepticons glared sourly at his Second.

"Fine." He eventually bit out. But, just as Megatron turned to _politely_ ask him to vacate the premises, he discovered the Prime was already moving. "Prime-" The Decepticon lord began, but the Optimus waved a dismissive servo that clearly said: _Don't worry about it._ Strange, how he could interpret the movements of his one-time enemy so easily nowadays.

"I'll be waiting outside." Came a calm and unperturbed voice from behind the Prime's face-mask. The leader of the Autobots removed himself with good grace from the office, Hook trailing behind his retreating form like a mother hen whose chick had hatched too early.

Megatron shuddered, wondering when and where he had started using such disturbing earth analogies.

Starscream was giving him a strange look that vaguely resembled his habitual smirk. It was so weakened and strangely nervous, however, that Megatron had trouble recognizing it.

He watched his Second for a few moments, analyzing the seeker's twitchy wings and trembling digits. Starscream was either quite frightened or quite embarrassed. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

"Alright." Megatron began warily. "What is it?"

Starscream fidgeted, and Megatron frowned at the incredibly uncharacteristic action. The seeker looked from left to right, behind himself, and behind Megatron (he had to stand on his pede-tips to do so) and finally settled on the berth with a resigned air. A blue servo whipped out and snagged the edge of the frame, noisily dragging the heavy contraption until it rested directly in front of the gladiator's desk. Once the piece of furniture was properly angled (which took several more moments to accomplish due to a certain seeker's picky nature) Starscream seated himself cross-legged upon it.

Megatron had seen him assume such a position only when seeking comfort during long hours of Strategies and Tactics, as Megatron had begun referring to the Decepticon Officer "get-together" evenings during the war. It looked incredibly painful, but whenever anyone had pointed that fact out, Starscream had nearly bitten their head off. Literally, in some "granted-there-had-been-high-grade-involved" cases, though his relatively small fangs hadn't managed to gnaw far.

Still, Megatron quirked an optic ridge at the sight as a whole, wondering briefly and without seriousness if his seeker had well and truly cracked.

Wait. _His_? Since when had he called Starscream-

"I have a confession."

Attention: snagged. Disbelief: heavy.

"Do tell." Megatron drawled. "You rarely have one until _after_ you've done something stupid, so why don't you start with your mistake and work up from there, hm?"

Starscream didn't reply; only hung his helm lower, cocked slightly to the side, as if…but surely _not_…

Megatron eyed the cringing position; the lowered wings, the crooked helm, fidgeting servos, flicking optics. He sat up straighter in his chair, and steepled his digits.

"Starscream." He couldn't have banished the smirk from his mouth if he had used a grinder. "What has you so shamed? It's a nice look for you."

The seeker's sudden fury at the insult briefly restored normality to the situation.

"I'm not ashamed!" Totally was. "I'm…worried." Well, that too. _After_ the "ashamed" bit. The seeker's rage vanished before Megatron's eyes like margarine applied to a red-hot skillet; still present, but almost invisible; liquidated into a simmering pool.

Decided to placate for the sake of getting answers _sometime_ before his _recharge cycle_, Megatron spoke honestly. "You have nothing to worry about if you are honest with me." It _was_ true. Mostly. When he wasn't pissed off by Starscream's attitude or inexplicable lack of intelligence at key moments of a battle. But he wasn't any of those right now. Just high on drugs, as Skywarp would say. Hook's concoctions were splendid for boosting one's repair nanites, but they played pit with a mech's thought processes. Made him all…goofy.

"Right." The seeker said flatly, his high voice a disbelieving drawl. "Well then, I suppose if I told you that from the moment I enter the Decepticons, I haven't been _completely_ honest with _anyone_ but Thundercracker - that I have been _playing a part_ during _most of our conversations _and the _entirety_ of the war - that, in short, _you never knew me_…you wouldn't mind." Acidic, but still with a note of nervousness.

Megatron frowned. Mind? Why would he mind? Starscream had always been lying to him at one point or another. Why would the fact that the seeker had been lying in other ways concern him?

Wait…something wasn't functioning right in his processors. A program was being reported as delayed. That couldn't be right; his reaction time was always impressive, if not perfect.

"Hm." He grunted, distracted by his internal malfunctions. More warnings were popping up; warnings he hadn't seen in so long he barely knew what they meant. "Probably not…give me a moment." He interrupted himself. Was he…glitching? Surely not. But what else could possibly make him display the chaotic beginnings of a heavy crash? He was clueless. That Autobot, Prowl, crashed. The infamous Red Alert crashed. Pit, _Soundwave_ had crashed, once. _Megatron_ had _never_-

His joints locked, limbs spasming, and his vision flickered out. The last thing he heard was a nearly hysterical "Frag it to the _pit_!" But he didn't know who it was; his processors were haywire, designating his knickknacks as Optimus Prime and firmly asserting that his berth was his flagship, _The Nemesis._

His audials and optics were out, vocalizer fizzling and tickling with what he could only assume was static, since he couldn't hear. Hot digits were clenching beneath armor plating, apparently trying to keep his balance _for_ him. He could have told whoever it was that the attempt was hopeless; his frame was heavy and strong, capable of ripping off any helpful mech's arms with a spasmodic jerk of his servos. When he fell from his chair to the floor, he carried the mystery mech with him. A heavy chassis collided with his own, and something _gave_, clinking in light, pinging sensations over his plating.

Megatron tried to speak, though he didn't know what he would say.

Then, with a sudden, painful jerk, he fell offline.

* * *

_At The Ark..._

Jazz leapt over a fallen table, kicking up sparks as he scuttled and scrambled gracelessly beneath a plush, Autobot sized sofa they had imported from Earth.

"Primus-smelt-it-Ratchet-it-wasn't-meh!" The saboteur wailed in a flurry of garbled Cybertronian, cringing at the sound of heavy pede-falls nearing his place of refuge.

"Come out of there, you pit-spawn!" The medic's snarl grated above a revving, furious engine. Jazz scooted more firmly into the underside of the sofa, stabbing his sharp digits into soft, plush fabric the color of mayonnaise. It clashed horribly with the bright orange walls of _The Ark_, but no one cared because the cushions were truly sinful; like clouds of warm breath a bot could simply fall into after a trying day of patrols and politics. It was Jazz's favorite couch, and he felt bad for stabbing it, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

"Ah ain't lettin' you pick meh apart for a prank Ah can't take credit for!" The silver mech howled, lowering his helm and poking his nose just barely beyond his protection, ascertaining the medic's position. That turned out to be a mistake.

Ratchet's cherry-colored digits snagged his nose in a cruel grip, threatening to wrench the protrusion off if Jazz didn't follow willingly and _immediately_. Cursing, flailing, and generally trying to make the experience as unpleasant as possible for his captor, Jazz allowed himself to be hauled from beneath the sofa.

"Ya got 'im?" Ironhide had entered the rec room, standing with massive black arms folded over his broad, shiny chassis. Jazz gave him the finger. "None o' that, now." The Weapon's specialist chided with a shit-eating grin. "You ready ta fess up, kid?"

"Man, Ah am at least three fourths yer age."

"Whatever ya say, _kid_."

"Enough." Ratchet growled, stomping past Ironhide's larger form and yanking Jazz behind him. "Time for a check-up."

"Ah'm _innocent_!"

"Shut up."

* * *

Mirage watched the scene apathetically. Jazz's howls of rage and promises of revenge were almost entirely without weight; he could see the saboteur's grin break out over his silvery features every couple seconds or so. The leader of the Autobot's Special Ops task force was far more adept at hiding his real emotions than most mechs realized. Jazz was loving every second of Ratchet's "abduction". That was ninety-five percent of the reason why Mirage didn't intervene.

The remaining five percent sat on his lap, having somehow managed to discover his hiding place among the rafters, scale the slick rec room walls, and claim the spot as his. If Mirage had lent a helping servo or two, no bot would ever know…unless Jazz had caught a glimpse. Then every bot would know.

Bumblebee chirred happily, completely absorbed in his inspection of Mirage's chassis armor. It felt a little odd, having small, silver digits running over his transformation seems and swiping excitedly over his spark's shielding, but Mirage hadn't made a move to halt the sparkling's explorations. So few bots bothered to approach him, let alone touch him, that such honestly curious and fascinated attention was quite welcome. Mirage hid his smirk as Bumblebee let out a frustrated bweep, and looked down.

The sparkling was glaring at his chest armor, servos planted between stubby silver legs, one on each of Mirage's thighs. Apparently, something was not operating according to the little one's expectations. Obviously, this meant that adult intervention was required.

An expectant, vivid blue gaze speared Mirage's own, optics wide with supplication.

The spy shifted uncomfortably beneath that gaze, not expecting such _feeling_ in the deep, solemn orbs. Expressive faceplates trembled in a tight-lipped beg, and Mirage sighed, knowing he had lost.

"What?" He whispered, carefully scanning the area for passersby.

Bumblebee turned a suddenly scowling face to the noble's chest plates, rapping them with a disapproving knuckle.

Mirage frowned, confused. What on_ earth_…? "What do you want?" He asked, barely breathing the words. Gears was passing by beneath them, grumbling something about bad weather and aged joints.

Bumblebee gave him a look that clearly stated the sparkling's less than glowing opinion of the spy's intelligence. Then silver digits pointed inward to a tiny, gleaming chassis, and Bumblebee's chestplates split open, revealing a brightly glowing, very _bare_ spark.

Mirage gaped for a moment before recovering. "B-Bumblebee!" The noble shrieked, appalled. He waffled between slamming the chestplates closed and covering his optics, servos twitching indecisively mid-air. "Close yourself this instant!" He snarled, settling on verbal reprimand.

The lights flickered suddenly, illuminating Bumblebee's startled and somewhat hurt expression. Mirage glanced around at the Ark's strangely glitching systems, surprise outweighing his embarrassment. Vents blasted and hissed to a silent wheeze intermittently; the lights flashed and guttered into darkness, brief spasms of light bursting from them. Mirage frowned, honestly confused. It was a sign that peacetime had taken its toll on his battle awareness that he didn't think to look _down_.

There was a chuckle from beneath them, and the lights went out entirely. The voice was certainly _not_ Gears, nor any other Cybertronian Mirage could recall having the displeasure of hearing. Cold, harsh bursts of grinding, sliding metal grated into the air, like jagged blades drawn against one another. The noble froze out of habit, servos instinctively jerking the sparkling to his chassis and wrapping round him protectively. Mirage's stealth generator engaged with a brief hum as the rasping laughter sounded again, this time a mocking echo of its previous amusement. It stopped, and Mirage, strained to see through the darkness to the source, scanners sweeping the area with fine-tuned precision.

"I would hazard a guess," Purred sibilant words from beneath them, "That he likes _sparks_. How _interesting…_" The lights flickered again, revealing a disturbing scene to spy and sparkling alike.

Gears' prone form lay in a heap of tangled limbs at the feet of a shadow. At least, that was what Mirage thought it was, at first. Then a slit of a mouth opened, exposing white fangs, and black, flat chrome glowed dully beneath the flickering rec room lights in a vaguely Cybertronian outline. The voice continued with a hiss. "But this little one is not the sparkling I am looking for, _Lord _Mirage - not even _one_ of them." Yellow optics shuttered open, glowing like twin flames, filled with cold calculation; dark humor twisted the pale mouth, and the dark lips opened again.

"Have you seen my twins?"

* * *

_At the Decepticon Base..._

"Starscream."

"What _is_ it, Thundercracker?! Can't you see I'm busy hauling this huge-aft _aft_ to Hook!? Stupid fool _glitched_."

Thundercracker ignored Megatron's slumped and supremely undignified sprawl on the floor; he moved swiftly to his trine-leader's side, and caught the mech by one shoulder. Starscream jerked around, irritation sparking from scarlet optics, mouth already opening to release a withering barrage of verbal abuse for the contact. Thundercracker dut him off with a look.

"Where's Skywarp?" The blue seeker demanded.

Starscream's expression confirmed his fears.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, we had a drugged Megatron, a not quite murderous _yet_ Sadist, and a scandalized Mirage. I had a bit of fun with this chapter... 3:)

If anyone is interested, there's a picture of Blackjack on my Deviantart account. Just search for "AshesInWhiteHands" on the Deviantart search engine, look for "OC: Blackjack", and you should find it.

Hope you enjoyed! Please review! I have very little idea whether or not people actually _like_ this story, and if there's honestly little interest in it, I might have to redesign the plot and figure out what's wrong with it, which would result in very few updates and probably a lot of confusion. Please tell me your opinion, even if it's that the story stinks. Thanks! Until next time.


	7. Waking Hours

Author's Note: Agh! It's been over a week since my last upload! Sorry for the wait; I had a great but tiring vacation in Minnesota and this chapter was a bitch to write. Hopefully it turned out okay. Thank you so much to those who reviewed last time! You gave me motivation to keep going. Your feedback was helpful, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story as it progresses.

Special thanks goes to:

**Bluebird202, ****and **

**Starfire201: **

**Thank you both! I wish I had something nice to give you, but alas, all I can offer is my written appreciation. Trust me, it's not a punishment.**

**Megatron: raises eyebrow.**

**Okay, it's not _meant_ to be a punishment.**

**Thanks again, you two, and anyone else who has shown their support in the past! :)**

With that concluded, on with the show!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my OCs and the plot.

Chapter Six

"Who's to say what love looks like? _You_ think it's something fuzzy and pleasant to look at. _I_ say it's big, yellow, and grouchy." -Sideswipe

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Joor: half an hour_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

_Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet_

* * *

_Somewhere ABOVE Praxus…_

_"What happens when you disengage the program?"_

Greenish clouds streaked past them on either side; acid mist stripped the paint from their bodies and wings. The dark Cybertronian night pressed in tightly around them, and visibility was practically nonexistent. Their scanners acted as their sight through the birthing storm, guiding them past obstacles such as the shining heads of new towers and the crippled skeletons of old ones. Beneath them streaked by the remains of a city that refused to be resurrected. Vos had been rebuilt, as had Kaon and Iacon - even Tyger Pax had been renewed and revamped into a stylish New Polyhex, since the old Polyhex was nothing but a field of rust and decay tossed on hot winds. But Praxus was dead. All attempts at the city's revival met with old sorrows and dead enthusiasm. The mechs and femmes of Praxus ached with the memory of burning plazas and shattered gardens, of vocalizers screaming desperately for help, some incoherent and trampling down helpless others in their panic. They didn't want to rebuild over the bodies of their families; the corpses of their loved ones. And so Praxus remained half-rebuilt, and every vorn or so a new architect would attempt to start the rebuilding process anew, but the venture always sputtered and died along with the plucky mech's enthusiasm.

Thundercracker had been there during the bombing of Praxus. It was the first time in his life he had taken pleasure in violence. The last, as well.

He tore his scanners from the scene of clean steel that rested alongside the carnage beneath him, turning them on his companion instead. Starscream had not answered him. The other seeker was ruthlessly raking the city ruins with his own scanners, seeking to pinpoint that vague spark signal that practically screamed their lost trinemate's name. Thundercracker had been assisting him up until this point, for approximately a cycle. They had not found their trinemate's exact location. That didn't make the situation hopeless, but Thundercracker had the strange feeling - a worry, really - that if he didn't ask Starscream now, he would never get an answer.

So, naturally, he repeated himself.

_"Starscream,"_ He called out over the comm. _"What will happen when you end the program?"_

He got an irritated response. _"What the frag are you on about?"_

_"The lies." _Thundercracker explained. _"Your act; it's a program, you told me. So, what will happen when your fabricated character is dissolved?"_

Starscream's reply was far more subdued this time. _"I return to my original personality."_

Thundercracker felt an unpleasant jolt through his tanks. _"And that personality…what is it?" _If he had said the words aloud his vocalizer would have spat out nervous static. He was glad for the steadying muffle of the comm. link.

_"I…" _The other jet slowed until it was nearly brushing its wingtip against his own. Starscream seemed oblivious to his own movements; lost in thought and unsure of himself. It was distinctly unnerving. _"I don't know_._"_

Thundercracker's frustration flared unexpectedly, and he was surprised to find himself swallowing down a few harsh words. He tried to analyze the situation - discover what it was that had fired his temper - but was unsuccessful. All he could do was hide his anger, speaking carefully into the comm. _"That seems a little…impossible."_

Starscream tried to snort derisively, but his unease transformed the sound into a breathy rasp. _"There is no such thing as "a little impossible". Either it's impossible or it isn't."_

Thundercracker bit back a retort, and turned his scanners to the ground once more.

And almost fell from the sky in shock.

During their conversation, Skywarp's spark energy signal had risen to the surface, clarifying into a precise location that was all too easy to locate.

Beside him, Starscream's flightpath stiffened. _"What?"_ Came a wary inquiry across the comms. _"What did you s-" _And then Starscream saw it too.

They were diving. Thought processes clicked and whirred through Thundercracker's mind; calculations whirred and optics scoured the area for possible hostiles. He analyzed; carefully weighed the defensive capabilities of nearby structures and calculated strategies of retreat, should one be necessary. He was the trine's support now, since Skywarp was missing from their formation; Starscream's speed designated him the perfect candidate for swift entry and evac. Niether had to speak to the other to clarify this; each knew his position and function without communication of any kind. A consequence of years of war.

Shadows flurried by; wind hissed and screamed past their blurred bodies.

They landed. Rust and bits of scrap went flying from beneath their thrusters; their explosive impact jarred the metal beneath their feet and bent it inward, creating a small cavity in the planet surface.

The rust settled. The city around them was still; unresponsive.

Instantly, both seekers slithered from their respective landings; Starscream from down on one knee, a single servo supporting the rest of his weight, the remaining null ray already leveled toward the point of interest not twenty mechnometers ahead of them; Thundercracker had leveled himself with the ground, chassis grinding against shattered metal plates, both arms aiming into the city remnants that Starscream could not cover with his own weaponry. Both darted from their landing point in perfect stride, large pedes snapping down, thrusters beating against the ground. They threw themselves, side by side, behind the broken, battered facade of an old Praxian bar.

Steel pressed against their backs; wings quivered with the sensation that buzzed along their broad expanse. Red optics glowed as high intensity scans swept their surroundings.

They were clear. No enemies in sight or on the scanners. Not even a spark signal, aside from the one that throbbed weakly ahead of Starscream, to Thundercracker's back.

Seamlessly, the two seekers fled from their position, each taking his own path through the city debris. They crawled and sprinted alternatively toward Skywarp's signal, darting behind the bones of buildings and pressing themselves into whatever shadows they could find.

Thundercracker flung himself up into the air, activating his thrusters for a short, sharp boost. He landed on the roof of an old trinket shop, dodging around the gaping holes in the heavy plates. Below and to his right, Starscream slid on his knees beneath a bent pathway that had fallen into the street the seeker was currently using. With an agility few other bots possessed, the air commander snapped his wings back and rolled, skidding onto his knees beneath the fallen walkway and springing upward on the other side, throwing himself into a full out pelt.

Thundercracker followed his commander's example, descending into the warped streetways and dodging debris, his optics watching for any sign of movement, hostile or Skywarp alike. He raced alongside his commander, wings back, each step propelling him forward - slower than his thrusters could carry him, but fast enough for the landbound path they were forced to take to reach their lost trinemate.

Within moments, they had reached the location where Skywarp's spark resonated weakly.

It was a large building. Jagged maws ripped into the dark, smoke-stained walls, birthing aching darkness into the night. Their optics were set for such an environment, so they saw the scene quite clearly. Thundercracker almost wished he hadn't; that he had remained above the clouds and away from this place - whatever it had once been.

Before them, spread out on the ground before a large, dented door, were Skywarp's wings. Energon, bright blue and still trickling wetly between the seams, dripped from the shoulder joints onto the cold metal earth. The black paint was patchy and worn; the Decepticon symbol was a mere memory wiped out in a messy web of scratches. Gone was the gloss Skywarp so determinedly declared he didn't care about; gone were the careful swipes of expensive polish the young seeker pretended he didn't favor, and hid with great embarrassment if discovered when applying the stuff to his wings.

Thundercracker's servos shook with rage; he clenched his jaw before he could swear.

When Thundercracker had met Skywarp, he was already being declared a prodigy for his unique skill; his ability to teleport at will (as long as his power levels held out, of course). The youngling had presented himself as a full grown mech, ready to enter Lord Megatron's forces, desperate for praise and success. It wasn't long before he was taken advantage of. That was when Thundercracker had come upon him.

He remembered the moment clearly: the shivering, sobbing form of a small adult seeker pressing himself as far into the corner of the washrooms as he could. Scars and scratches littering black, dingy plating. Dents in well-shaped thighs. Thundercracker remembered the sound of his own pedes as he stepped closer, and the rattling shudder as the mech before him shrank back in fear. Little black digits raised in a weak show of defense against him.

The wings on the ground seemed to weep in the same way, reproving him for his weakness; his inefficiency and his failures as Skywarp's friend.

Beside him, Starscream was already moving, swiping up a wing to put in subspace - clearly expecting Thundercracker to do the same. The blue seeker did. He carefully slid the wide strip of bent metal into his servos, transferring it into his subspace in a way that would ensure its continued preservation.

Their entrance into the building had an almost dreamlike quality to it. Shadows shifted and danced away as they approached. Rust plumed into the air with every step Thundercracker took, dusting his plating with a soft, fine red coating. His optics were having trouble with the change from dark to lightless, leaving him blind to everything but touch, smell, and sound. The chamber stank of energon. Freshly spilled, swiftly souring energon. The rust particles tickled his forearms and thighs, washing up his chassis and plinking almost inaudibly against the glass of his cockpit. He heard a soft inhalation from somewhere further in the darkness; weary vents sputtering, desperately attempting to cool heated systems.

Then Skywarp's voice rasped out at them from the shadows, surprisingly near. "W-what are you doing?" Each syllable was slurred with pain, frantic, spat into the air as though every sound were taking a terrible toll on the purple seeker. Thundercracker crouched silently, creeping forward, left servo outstretched toward the voice. His other servo snagged Starscream's digits, pulling the other seeker along.

"Y-you _idiots_!" There was fear in Skywarp's voice, and the sounds of a mech frantically shifting away from them rang out loudly in the darkness. Utter terror, choking his vocalizer and fizzling out static. "You h-have to g-get aw-!" The words were coughed out of existence; choked into silence by a weak, gasping vocalizer.

Skywarp's digits brushed accidentally against his, and Thundercracker immediately snatched them into his grasp, hauling Starscream into contact as well. Together, their servos roamed down the other seeker's arm, all over the teleporter's plating, brushing against jagged wounds and sliding wetly over a battered cockpit; searching his wounds for fatal blows and lacerations. Skywarp's sharp hiss as they touched his cockpit made them hesitate, and the purple seeker's digits caught theirs in that moment, halting their inspection.

"He's c-coming! He w-wants Rumble and F-Frenzy!" The young mech sobbed, forcing his words past obvious terror.

"Shut up." Starscream's voice cut him off. Thundercracker agreed, but didn't say so aloud. No need to use more words than they had to; there might be listeners. "We're taking you back."

"No! I can't!" Skywarp began to thrash, but he was so weak that it was little more than a writhe. It did little to stop them from hauling him to his pedes. "He's coming for them! I can't let it happen! Tell Starscream - tell Starscream I can't come back alive! He'll understand…!" Skywarp was delirious now. His words were so slurred it was all but impossible to understand him, and hot, wet tears were splashing over Thundercracker's digits, each one like a stinging reprimand against the blue seeker's plating.

_You should have been here sooner. You could have spared him. You should have known._

Thundercracker's servos shook with rage.

They were staggering back towards the bright exit when they heard it.

A childlike, but oddly deep, rolling laugh.

* * *

…_Memory file 000.32: Accessed…_

"How can you pretend to know him when you never listen to what he's saying or ask why he does things?!" _Warm, angry, familiar - His_.

"Speak for yourself, Sunstreaker." _Soft, condescending, feminine, wrong._

"He is!" _Truth, lie, but honest._

"Sideswipe." _Metallic click of joints on joints, polished metal shifting as the helm turned. _"Shut up and let your brother speak." _Irritation, bitterness, dislike, suspicion; she thought she knew what was going on. She never listened. _

"You never listen! You're a bully and a coward and he doesn't like you!" _His other half; warmth, protectiveness, love._

"Get him out of here!" _Hate. Hate. Hate. Bring him back, bastards._

_Soft hiss of moving metal parts. A light touch on his plating. _"It's okay now, Sunstreaker. You can speak for yourself; Sideswipe can't control you any more." _Hopeful, tentative, kindly. _"Do you…have anything you'd like to say?"

_Blue optics, soft and simpering. Gentle runes and lettering around silver cheeks, over plump lips._ " I know it's hard; Sideswipe has always be dominant, and now that he's gone, freedom tastes strange. But it doesn't have to be that way, Sunstreaker. Just…be yourself." _A touch on his faceplates, over his jawline. _"Do you…have anything to say?"

_Suddenness. A pained gasp. Warmth trickling between his digits._

_:Bring him back. Bring him back. Bring him back, you bastards…!:_

_A spark throbbing between his hands, guttering and spitting. _"Sun-Sunnstrreeak-?" _Vocalizers sputtering. Digits clawing against dingy yellow plating._

_Sideswipe by his side, in his spark. Gone. Thanks to her._

_Hate - Hate - Hate - Fury - Loss - Hate - Want - Hate-!_

_Audial against his lips. Heat in his systems. Plating rattling. Hate in his spark, agony in hers - of he could manage it, of course. _

_What had she asked?…"_Do you have anything to say?"_…?_

_:Yes.: Yes…he did._

"I…" _A twist with his digits. A gasp from her lips._ "…_Hate_…" _Servos gripping, pulling, tearing, killing._ "You."

_Death on silver faceplates. Shadows in an empty chassis. Sideswipe by his side. Screams. Speed. Gone. Freedom._

* * *

Sideswipe woke with a gasp, flailing. Restraints bit harshly into his wrists at the sudden movement, steel rings grinding into his plating, buzzing with threatening energy. Another move like that and he would be fiercely electrocuted.

His new cell was more formidable than the last had been. Every wall was surging with energy; each one a clear, slightly purplish window through which he could be watched from every angle. There was enough space for a large mech to lie down comfortably, so he had plenty of room.

Systems racing, engine sputtering, Sideswipe fell back against the floor. It wasn't often he relived his own memories, let alone his brother's. Sunstreaker must have been deep in recharge; unable to stop his flow of thoughts and fragmented memory files from reaching out to his twin.

Sideswipe checked along the bond, his suspicions confirmed when he felt the dormant, floating consciousness that was his brother's mind. Sunstreaker was comfortable and relaxed in recharge; something he never was while awake. His systems didn't whine under the pressure of his tense limbs and carefully controlled movements; they were a deep, base rumble that purred and whispered _strength_ and _power_ into the air. Or maybe that was just Sideswipe's interpretation. He _was_ a bit biased, truth be told.

It seemed a little narcissistic to love his other half in the way he did, but the very fact that Sunstreaker did not return the same sort of affection (to all appearances that was. Sideswipe held out a feeble hope that his twin was simply very good at hiding them) solidified his belief that he was not in any way loving _himself_. Sunstreaker was _different_; the golden twin had urges Sideswipe couldn't imagine experiencing, and had a sort of creepy admiration for detail in anything he found beautiful. Sunstreaker had once confided, in a moment of sheepish trust followed by extreme embarrassment, that he wanted to be an artist. Sideswipe, while showing his support in every way he could (so that he didn't have to worry about his brother's delicate psyche taking a blow from his criticism), thought such an occupation was a waste of Sunstreaker's time and his own. Artist? Sideswipe had yet to see a piece of art that was so good it was worth the time and effort its maker took to create it. But all of these differences assured Sideswipe that there was nothing wrong with loving Sunstreaker; that he wasn't being narcissistic in the least, since they were so dissimilar.

Absentmindedly, Sideswipe rubbed a thumb against his own arm, transmitting the feeling to his slumbering twin. Sunstreaker's engine gave a deeper (if that was even _possible_) thrum in the next room, purring contentedly.

Sideswipe smiled to himself, and continued rubbing his own arm.

He couldn't remember how they had gotten into their new accommodations; he in his own cell, Sunstreaker separated from him, contained in a chamber on the left of his own. As far as he could recall, they had been trading information with their interrogators, and after that…he couldn't recall.

Their mentor had said it was a glitch. That two bots connected by spark and mind couldn't handle the strain of extreme circumstances for extended periods of time, or so he had put it. After too much stress, they would glitch. Sideswipe didn't know what happened then; only that his and Sunstreaker's emotions played off of one another during the duration of the glitch, whether those emotions be anguish, happiness, or anger. Their control was compromised; their minds attempting to meld into a single entity composed of very different character traits. When their very different personalities failed to unite, they… He didn't know what they did, but he knew it was destructive. Spark split twins were _supposed_ to be able to become one mind. The failure of this natural and coveted ability was painful; further evidence that, as they were, the twins were crippled. Had been, from birth.

Sunstreaker's mind shifted, wakening, and Sideswipe shoved his somber thoughts to the back of his processor, caking his surface consciousness in pleasure and welcome. His twin's mind brushed against his own, testing and acknowledging his greetings. There was a flicker of interest as Sunstreaker caught the faint end of a thought. Sideswipe cursed his brother's attention to detail, and shoved his worries further back into the recesses of his processor in an attempt to lessen the damage.

_:You're hiding something.:_ Sunstreaker muttered sleepily.

_:Private.:_ Sideswipe replied apologetically, but warily kept his defenses up. Sunstreaker rarely cared about his privacy, even though the golden twin demanded a respectful distance to be maintained from his own secrets.

_:Where are they?:_

_:The interrogators? Dead, if we're unlucky.:_

_:Can't remember?:_

_:No. It's not getting any better.: _Sideswipe sighed out loud, the sound echoing in the large metal chamber. He felt a ghost of sensation as Sunstreaker shifted to a languid sprawl on his side, pedes crossed, resting heavily on his elbow. _:We need to stop this.:_

_:We don't know how.:_

_:And there are no other sets of twins that might help us, even if we could get out of here.:_ It was a conundrum, to be sure. On the one hand, they were fugitives running for their lives. On the other, they were considered invaders of a heavily armored base, and had probably attacked - if not killed - two high-ranking mechs. On a third hand, they needed to get out and find a stable environment in which they could comfortably accustom themselves with their new lives and take control of their situation. On a fourth, that wasn't likely to happen if they couldn't control themselves enough to explain their situation to their captors.

_:Four hands…:_

Sideswipe cut his brother off harshly. _:He's NOT going to find us.:_

_:He found…the others.:_

It was a slight pause; a tip of the helm to the agreement they had made. They wouldn't say her name, until they avenged her.

_:We were made for this.:_

_:No.: _Sunstreaker said. _:We were made for war.:_

There was a pause. Sideswipe grinned, knowing Sunstreaker would feel it.

_:…Call the interrogators back?:_

_:Agreed. But I'm not saying 'sorry'.:_

_:Never, bro. Not your fault.:_

_:Not _our_ fault.:_

* * *

_In the Decepticon medbay…_

The medbay was in disarray. Hook had never finished his cleaning _or_ reorganization, and the tables, as a result, had never been replaced. This made things difficult when Lord Megatron was brought in, glitched and offline, dragged along in minuscule increments by Scalpel's many tiny appendages. The scientist claimed that Starscream had essentially dumped the warlord into his arms (i.e. onto him, since Scalpel was approximately the size of _one _of Megatron's elbows). Why, not even Scalpel knew - but it wasn't the sort of scientific secret the little bot was interested in finding out.

Hook wondered why Scalpel hadn't simply left Megatron in the hall and gone on with his dogged pursuit of truth, but on further reflection he realized that it was more than likely because somewhere, in his convoluted processors, the spidery nuisance realized that it was Megatron who paid his bills. For the sake of the further financing of science, Scalpel could afford to put off his experiments for a few astroseconds.

The trip from the floor to a medical berth took quite a bit longer, in reality, and Hook highly doubted the trek from the outer halls into the medbay had taken anything less than a joor. Megatron was limp and hard to maneuver, and Scalpel was instantly uninterested in helping once he realized he could return to his studies without fear of repercussions. Hook had been forced to call Shockwave for help, eventually, since most of the other Decepticons were occupied with their daily tasks. Scientists had it so easy…

Shockwave had been surprisingly willing to assist in Megatron's conveyance from floor to berth. In fact, the large scientist's enthusiasm was a bit creepy. Something about Megatron's limp form had Shockwave in a titter - it was the only way Hook could even begin to describe it.

Hands carefully curling beneath a shoulder joint on which an enormous silver armed lolled unpleasantly, Shockwave levered the Decepticon Leader onto the widest berth; one created specifically for weighty patients. Hook watched, feeling a bit queasy when he noticed the dark purple claws lingering for more time than was strictly necessary on pale, gleaming plating. Yes, yes; true love and all that, but _Shockwave?_

_Eugh…_

"Doctor."

Hook jumped violently, squashing a vagrant tool that had been knocked onto the floor by his failed attempts to move Megatron earlier. Shockwave was eyeing him with a strange look, as though it was _Hook_ who was behaving oddly.

"The operation is complete. You may commence repairs."

Hook nodded silently at Megatron's still body, unable to hold the cyclops' stare.

Shockwaved _lingered_ as Hook worked, watching with concern (creepy), and a bit of…fondness (downright terrifying). Under normal circumstances, Hook would be wondering why the scientist hadn't returned directly to his research, as Scalpel had. But these were _far_ from normal circumstances.

Somewhere between managing the neural net and recalibrating the processing files, Shockwave addressed him again. "How long will the repairs take, doctor?"

_Long time. You'll be in recharge by the time I'm through; trust me. Better to just leave now and come back later. Much later. _"A few kilks." He said honestly, and immediately after gave himself a mental kick in the head.

Shockwave's neck joints ground together as he gave a small, despondent nod. "I have findings to report to him when he awakes. Examination of the prisoners was successful and…highly intriguing."

The last time Shockwave had said something was "Highly Intriguing", the _Nemesis_ had sprouted extra armor plating over its hull; plating that had begun to _eat_ the old armor, with many sounds of ravenous delight. It had been disturbing for the mechs inside, to say the least.

"Oh?" His vocals had jumped an octave and adopted a panicked tone. He steadied them. "Oh?" He repeated levelly.

"Yes. I will continue my research until Lord Megatron is available for debriefing."

"I'll let you know when he wakes."

* * *

_Memory Files: Intact. Reviewal of Memory Files? Yes/No_

_Yes._

_Memory Files: Opened. Selection of Memory File?_

_5528.3_

_Accepted. Memory File 5528.3 playing now…_

C_old impact splashing over his backplates. Liquid passing through joints and plating, seeping into systems and choking his engines. No grip for twitching digits - fear. Cold. Panic. Gently wash of organic water past his lips, into his ventilation systems and over sensitive sensors. Gagging on the alien taste. Falling - no, sinking. Darkness shattered by flitting spears of sunlight. Energon threading through clear blue water, licked from his side by the alien push and pull of waves._

_Spark fading, hissing against droplets that stung like acid against the tongues of his life-force. Digits reaching up toward sunlight. A shadow, wings against the sun. Beautiful. Hope. A hand slicing through waves, grabbing hold; clawing and pulling on sore plating. Heaved up from death and dark, alien waters, into wonderfully warm, oxygen saturated air. _

_Arms around his limp body. Metal straining. Thrusters whining beneath both mechs' weight. Gasping, choking, alive. Gratitude. Unidentifiable warmth. Scarlet optics sparking with irritation, rage, and…fear._

_Starscream…_

* * *

Scarlet optics fizzled to life. Silver lips pressed tightly together from a loosely open gasp, and the silver frame grew tense beneath the warlord's control.

The medbay was dark. Shadows clung to clean white walls, as though afraid of the mech. The silence was deafening.

Then, still immobile on the med berth, Megatron spoke.

"Ah, Starscream." He murmured, and his optics sparked with a pain few mechs could claim to have seen - even less, since many had been killed directly after. The red gaze slowly slitted to a close, and the same pain flickered over silvery faceplates. "Was that too a lie?"

* * *

Author's Note: Well, there it is. A bit of a filler chapter, for which I apologize, but a few clarifications and developments you didn't get to see before.

Skywarp's ALIVE! *does rediculously happy but extremely undignified dance* I love that shmuck.

Anyway, please please _please_ review! It brightens my day and gives me motivation, which in turn expedites the posting of chapters, so...it's all around awesome. Even a simple "It's good" or "Story sucks" is welcome on my review page.

Until next time!


	8. First Strike

Author's note: Hello everyone! I haven't posted in...*cringes* more than a week...!

Sorry about that. I've been able to post pretty frequently up till now, but I'm afraid I'll have to cut back on fanfiction writing as the school year continues. I'm not sure exactly how often I'll be able to post, but I'll try to make it as often as possible without losing too much of the story's quality.

On another note, I'd like to thank those who reviewed, especially:

**Starfire201**

With that, on with the show!

Any mistakes are my fault; I have no beta.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OC's.

Chapter Six

"There is a time when all hopes, dreams, and loves fail you; when desperation dictates your every action, undermines your beliefs. Everything you've ever believed to be worth your love are lies; illusions and deceptions that can no longer bear your weight. You find yourself without a single truth to stand on; alone in the night. You fall, defenseless, through the black. If you are _very_ lucky, there is someone in the darkness to catch you." -Megatron

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Joor: half an hour_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

_Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet_

* * *

_In the Decepticon base…_

The _Ark_ was under attack.

Optimus Prime's lengthy strides carried him swiftly down the blank corridors of the Decepticon base; mechs who saw his approach flattened themselves against the walls, red optics glinting with curiosity and no little awe at the Prime's formidable frame and clenched servos. Behind him, Soundwave followed. The blue mech's steps were a fluid stalk, each pede coming down in a soft, clear _clack _against the metal floor.

Soundwave had changed, since the end of the war. During his service, he was possibly the most feared of the Decepticon command apart from Megatron. The silent communications officer had been Jazz's most capable adversary, singly responsible for thirty-seven percent of the Decepticons' victories, and assisting heavily in a more generous fifty-four percent. A masterful tactician as well as an invaluable counter intelligence officer (anti-spy, to the unitiated), Soundwave was seen as an emotionless machine; the most depraved of Decepticon command; since all of his crimes were acts of carefully controlled, calculated intelligence, rather than acts of violence driven by passion and the desire for freedom. Most bots killed without any real thought, and refused to consider the act afterward out of guilt. Soundwave killed to make a point, and as far as the Autobots were concerned, this method of warfare had contorted whatever bot Soundwave had been into the monstrosity he was during the war.

Even taking into account Megatron's own case, they had never judged a bot - or his actions - so wrongly.

But now wasn't the time to be considering past mistakes.

Looking back over his shoulder, Optimus called out to the telepath, trying to sound calmer than he actually was. "Can you have the ship running by the time we arrive in the docking bay?"

Immediately Soundwave's deep, rich vocals answered him in an affected monotone. "Craft: will be ready to depart upon arrival."

Optimus nodded, returning his gaze to the front in barely enough time to avoid squashing a cleaning drone, and stumbling back into his brisk pace once he'd passed the quivering machine. "Thank you." He blurted out to the communications officer, barely giving the words any thought. His men were under attack. His bots were probably dying, and he was here, in the _Decepticon_ base-!

"The Prime: Should not feel guilty."

Startled, Optimus' step faltered. He danced gingerly around a passing seeker's wingspan as the bot scrambled to get out of his way, scarlet optics popping as wide as Optimus' were.

Soundwave pretended he hadn't seen any sort of indignity, and continued, his strides even _clicks_ against the floor. "Prime: was saving lives here."

Optimus frowned, wondering at what point he'd saved any bot on the premises during his stay. Soundwave answered his unspoken question (the frequency with which he did so was unnerving). "Optimus Prime's presence at this facility: mended unstable interfaction relations. The Prime: forestalled hostilities between factions; is providing friendship to those who believe Autobot's have none to offer. This: has saved lives."

Slightly mollified, but knowing the likelihood of Soundwave mentioning this for any reason other than to build his confidence to be unlikely, Optimus gave the Con a nod. "Thank you."

"Lives of Autobot's: depend on the Prime's state of mind on arrival." Soundwave continued, disregarding Optimus' interruption. "If Prime is distracted by illusionary guilt, then death _will_ result. The Prime: does not react well when assaulted by regrets."

Again, Optimus was surprised. It was brutal honesty, coming from a Con, but aside from that shocking anomaly, Soundwave had essentially expressed concern on both Optimus' and the Autobots' behalf. How strange this peace was becoming…

They reached the docking bay, where Prowl and the Autobot shuttle were waiting.

Mechs scurried past, mostly Decepticon in allegiance, but a few Autobots tossed him a half-hazard salute. "Prime!" They barked, and each time, Soundwave started visibly. Apparently, the Decepticons were not as used to his presence as the telepath had indicated. Or perhaps they were simply remembering a time when a shouted "Prime!" meant "Get your aft out of the line of fire".

"Sir." Prowl came to a stiff salute in front of him. "Craft is ready to depart."

The Autobot shuttle was small; a dirty white ship large enough to five mechs at most. The plating was anything but fashionable, but Autobots cared more for practicality than aesthetics - at least, they did when their names were Prowl and they had authority over _all_ of the_ Ark's_ construction teams.

As he embarked, Optimus noticed several Decepticon crafts in the process of take-off. He watched as Soundwave made his way over to one, unfolding a sonic cannon the size of Megatron's arm from subspace, and leaping onto the ship's outer shell. The communications officer looked his way, and deliberately attached a hook and cable around his middle, cinching himself into place.

The cables were used in part for transportation of mechs who couldn't fit into the ship, but served the double purpose of allowing for a speedy drop into a battle-zone.

It seemed interfaction relations _had_ improved. Enough that the Decepticons were coming to the Autobots' rescue.

Optimus turned back to the shadowed depths of his own craft, and smiled behind his battlemask. Warmth curled in his spark, and he knew that peace was finally within their grasp.

...If they could survive this night.

* * *

_At the Ark, one hour earlier..._

Daystar hated cramped spaces. He also hated the dark, as his designation implied. Furthermore, anything remotely resembling refuse or filth of any kind was to be destroyed immediately, and with prejudice, in his fantastically appropriate and correct opinion.

The ventilation duct in which he found himself was cramped, darker than the pit, and filled with rust particles, dust, and a strange assortment of alien webbing he just _knew_ would never release its tenacious hold from his plating. In short, he was not a happy mech.

_Eugh_…He curled his lip, swiping a strand of sticky fibre from his knuckles. _Purge-worthy..._

Ahead of him, Nightstar's aft shifted back and forth. His superb vision allowed him to see every detail; joints folding, plating sliding, thighs, calves, and pedes moving sinuously as his twin used his stalking skills to his full potential. This sight too was purge-worthy, in Daystar's opinion. Whoever had designed his brother's aft was blind, senile, or born in an age where angles and sharp edges were all the rage.

In their bond, the cold blankness so characteristic of a Nightstart on the hunt flickered with slight annoyance.

_:Stop looking, if it bothers you.: _The pitch-black twin sent. It was strange. When he heard his own words in the bond, they very much resembled a voice; actual phrases linked together in a pleasant, deep tone (if he said so himself…). When his brother spoke, the received result was a voiceless _feeling_; thoughts conveyed without context or sound at all. Perfect access to his brother's thoughts, but only the ones he was allowed to see. Nightstar had long established himself as the dominant twin; an out of character move, if one couldn't see beyond his recalcitrance and into the quagmire of emotion within. They still fought about superiority occasionally, but the vague understanding was that it was mostly due to their difference in character.

His train of thought was brutally cut off by his brother, who quietly but forcibly drew his attention to the sounds of battle above them, in the Autobot rec room.

_:Sire has begun the attack. Alert the others.:_

Action. Good. Now they could leave this stupid duct and never return unless it was to smelt the primus-damned thing.

_"Everyone!" _He called out dramatically into his comm. None answered, but all were listening. _"Begin the rescue! Find our missing two!"_

_"How does sire know they're here?" _Jade. Of course. The femme was intolerable!

Daystar sighed heavily - into the comm, of course, so that all would know of his righteous exasperation. _"Because, oh doubting one, this is where Creator said they would be."_

_"Creator is tricksy - he said we would find them if we searched here, not that they _were_ here."_

_"The outcome is the same either way."_ Her own twin's sibilant rasp was a welcome intervention. Ebony had always been reasonable - at least, more so than his sister. _"So shut up and do your job."_

Jade's silence was warily submissive; she knew she was outgunned, especially since her own twin refused to side with her. Not that that was unusual. Jade and Ebony didn't get along. Not even to the extent that Daystar and Nightstar shared.

_"Are we done?" _Daystar couldn't help but prod. _"Good. Then let's get to work. Axelond, call up those "Cliffjunker" goons or whatever they call themselves and say we have our part of the deal ready."_

Axelond did not respond, but no one expected him too. He and Nightstar were similar in their silence, but there all similarities ended. At least, Daystar hoped so, for his own sake. Axelond had killed _his_ twin.

But he was efficient, and irreplaceable, so he hadn't been punished by their sire _or _the Creator.

When they found Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, the runaways wouldn't be so lucky.

* * *

_At the Ark, at the time of Optimus' departure from the Decepticon base…_

Blaster fire hissed and sizzled through the air. Heat gushed in distorted clouds from burning walls and slagged cover, contorting like a storm of liquid glass against the shockingly orange ceiling. Screams and howls of rage were drowned out by the deafening roar of battle. Metal blades screeched and clashed against on another; the impact of mech against mech rang through the halls. The crash of falling bodies and the thunderous discharge of heavy weaponry thrummed through the air.

Jazz dodged, ducked, and sliced. In his servos, a pair of jagged shrapnel bits blurred and spattered drops of energon onto the orange walls. Mechs screamed; mechs with autobot sigils polished to a sinister, perverted shine. How Jazz _hated_ Cliffjumper; first for assaulting the most innocent being they had seen in vorns, and then dying a hero's death before the minibot's beliefs could be disproven. Cliffjumper had many followers; not enough to be overly worrisome on their own. But they weren't alone in their assault, this time.

Orange optics flashed with glee to Jazz's left, and he dodged the larger mech's vicious swipe. Long, purple claws stabbed into the wall behind him, inches from his shoulder. Jazz knelt and swung his leg beneath his enemy, knocking sharply against knee-joints and sending the mech tumbling down.

They had come "out of left field", as the humans would say. Orange-eyed bastards with far too much experience to be neutrals and far too little emotion (discounting sadistic delight in the spilling of Autobot energon) to be of Cliffjumper's group. Their leader had initiated the battle, slipping past the _Ark's_ defenses with suspicious ease, and engaging in a conversation with Mirage and _Bumblebee_, of all people, in the rec room. That's where it had started, but in a surprisingly short amount of time, the Cliffjumper mob had arrived, evening the odds. Distracted by the unexpected skill of the instigators, the Autobots hadn't had a prayer of warding off a second attack.

Now, they weren't fighting to retain their defenses or reclaim the _Ark;_ they were fighting to _survive_.

Blaster had sent out word; Prime and Prowl would be arriving shortly. But seconds were precious, and Jazz knew he wasn't half the tactician Prowl was, and couldn't compare to Optimus' battle prowess or leadership. If those two didn't arrive soon, they were dead. All of them, including the tiny silver sparkling a wounded Gears had stolen away to the brig, where, hopefully, they would be safer.

Jazz gritted his denta, and made his next attack extra vicious. The bot's spark felt warm against his digits, and sizzled against the cool exterior of the grenade he left behind.

The saboteur danced around the horrified mech, slipping between two other enemy bodies, snatching an Autobot scruff bar and hauling the mech with him around a corner.

_"Down!"_ Jazz yelled throughout _all_ Autobot comms.

Mechs flung themselves to the ground just as his unfortunate victim exploded, sending shrapnel whizzing and hissing through the air, stabbing through the mechs that the fiery explosion hand't offlined.

Not wasting a moment, Jazz let his companion go, and spun back into the fray.

_Hurry, Prowl…_

* * *

_Somewhere in Praxus..._

"Go-go-go-go-go!"

Skywarp's undignified caterwaul was a welcome serenade to his audios. Thundercracker had to admit he had missed his trinemate's downright goofy antics - for the _solar cycle_ that they had been separated, that was. He was such a sap. Between him and Starscream, Thundercracker felt as though drama would reign supreme. When Skywarp was involved, all drama was just a chance to kill the mood; endless opportunities to say something ridiculous that would make the two older seekers laugh.

And Thundercracker _did_ laugh, even as blaster fire sizzled past his wings, biting into the wall of the Praxian bar behind him. Pelting down the closest thing Praxus had to a main street - a wide strip of flat, rusty terrain lined by what had once been Praxus' finest attractions - Thundercracker let his anxiety go. Skywarp was here - wounded, yes - but _here_. Starscream was the same as he had always been, not yet allowing his program of lies to be taken offline, screeching insults and profanities at their pursuer. Yes. Pursuer as in _single._

The mech was disturbing. Long and short story put together to make the most blunt, honest assessment, he was a walking nightmare that laughed at the oddest moments, such as when Starscream had nailed him with a barrage of null-ray fire. He kept asking about twins, and Skywarp insisted he'd 'talked' about something; given away an important detail that involved Rumble and Frenzy…who were, oh so coincidently, _twins_.

Thundercracker wasn't too worried; he didn't understand why Skywarp _was_. The twins were protected by the most unflappable, competent, 'oh-shit-is-he-looking-at-_me'_ mech that had ever graced the world with his terrifying presence. Soundwave had cost Swindle money when most bots elected the telepath as more frightening than _Megatron_. (It made sense the salesmech would stake his bet on the Decepticon leader, though, since he had been on the receiving end of Megatron's fusion cannon more often than any mech other than _Starscream_). The telepath was a legend among his comrades in arms, and a horror story among his enemies. He was the kind of mech femmes warned their sparkling about: "If you don't recharge, _Soundwave_ will find you…" (Let the childhood trauma begin).

And Skywarp seemed to be under the impression that this same mech's twins were in any sort of danger. Either the seeker's processors were addled, or there was something Thundercracker didn't know.

"We can't lead him to them!" His trinemate wailed, gasping in pain as they ran. He was strung between them, their arms entwined around his battered waist. Together, they hobbled at a fair clip along the Praxus road, looking like some sort of deformed shuttlemech who had consumed a bit too much high grade.

Behind them, their enemy's lilting call rang out; an annoying, half-tune half-snarl. "You can't hide them, _ravagers!_" He'd called them that several times now. There was something in that, but for the life of him Thundercracker couldn't understand _what_. And now that Skywarp was back, he felt less than inclined to investigate, and more than a little inclined to celebrate.

But now was not the time.

Grinning from audial to audial, Thundercracker flipped his body skillfully around, switching his hold so that he still supported Skywarp, but faced backward as he ran. He raised his free arm, and fired his first missile.

Thundercracker was the last seeker to retain his Earthen vehicle form. He liked the angular slopes and bulky front of the jet shape; the large, explosive, and very un-cybertronian weapons that accompanied such a form were an added bonus.

Their pursuer, unused to Earth weaponry, Thundercracker was sure, seemed stumped by the large, dartlike shape speeding toward him, trailing smoke. He looked a bit perplexed, as though he wasn't entirely sure what was being fired at him was something he should dodge or not.

Definitely should have dodged.

* * *

_At the Ark..._

It was soft at first. A muffled sound, drowned out by the rage of battle; one that swiftly grew into a chant that shook the walls. Debris and shrapnel rattled on the ground; the Coalition - those who supported the fallen war-hero, Cliffjumper - paused in their advance, disbelief morphing into fear. The name rang through the _Ark_, roared from the vocalizers of third in command Jazz's motley forces, each cry impassioned, confident in an Autobot victory.

"Prime! Prime! Prime! Prime!…"

Smoke curled around Daystar's scratched and battered plating, weaving through his digits and tickling sensitive wiring beneath his armor. The _Ark's_ rec room was a scene of carnage; Coalition troops and Autobot soldiers littered the ground. Each face was a stunning blow to both sides, but Daystar didn't know any of them.

In times of war, the most soldiers killed died in the beginning. Any who lasted after were probably skilled enough to last mega-vorns; they quickly knew their friends and enemies with an intimacy that only cybertronians could achieve, with lifespans of their length. Wars lasted centuries; mechs grew together, and when a friend - or an enemy - was deactivated, the loss was felt by both sides. The enemy realized it no longer had to plan for that soldier's specific talents, and the other faction knew it could not depend on his unique methods for support any longer.

Daystar hadn't been online long enough to have an emotional attachment to anything save Nightstar. He couldn't care less if any other member of his family was killed - save their sire. The day Ionicon was killed would be the day Daystar died, since the twin wouldn't allow anything less stop him from saving his sire.

Around him, the bodies of Coalition and Autobot troops alike were no more than empty frames with unfamiliar faces. But to the mech entering the rec room, they were family; and his vengeance was something to be wary of.

Daystar had heard of the great Prime. He had heard his sire's stories of the Decepticon revolution; felt the anger his sire had wanted him to feel at the tale of their endless battles. He had heard of the carnage; of the skillful killing of thousands of Cybertronians, and the idiotically immovable stance both factions had taken on their so-called principles. How any mech could be stupid enough to think freedom was worth the death of their race was beyond Daystar. How could freedom be so important that they would leave no mechs to enjoy it? Ridiculous.

But there stood one of the most intrinsic pieces to the formation of that war and those beliefs: Optimus Prime.

The mech walked like a titan. Each step was filled with meaning, as though the Prime knew each movement and meant for each twist of his joints to happen in precisely the manner in which they did. His helm and antennae all but brushed the ceiling supports, so massive was his frame. Blue optics the color of deep space and alive with the fire of a sun burned deeply into Daystar's gaze, locking him in place with some sort of telekinetic power. There was no other explanation for why his joints locked up; why his servos began shaking and why he could not look away.

Then from behind him, a dark, dirty claw slipped onto his shoulder, and Ionicon pushed him gently aside. His sire took the full force of the majestic Prime's gaze, and met it with his own.

Ionicon was not a large mech, nor was he impressive by normal standards. When Daystar had first seen him, only moments after his and his twin's birth, he hadn't quite known what to think.

Black plating, scuffed and worn beneath the seeker's many nights of tedious labor, gleamed dully beneath the flickering rec room lighting, as different from the Prime's glistening colors as day was from night. Tattered wings that had not seen flight for as long as Daystar could remember rose like mangled protrusions from the flier's back, undecorated and scarred with many sets of five-lined scores in the metal. Ionicon was lithe, heavily weighted on his pedes and forearms, and boasting a bold chassis that tapered into a pleasant enough waist. Daystar had fashioned his own frame off of his sire's out of admiration for the build, minus the bothersome wings.

Ionicon's optics, amber and dull, watched the Prime with no expression whatsoever. It was the mech's way, Daystar supposed. The mech wasn't old, but he sure looked it. When one knew what to look for, it was impossible to think of the seeker as aged in any way.

When the seeker began to speak, that knowledge was further solidified in Daystar's mind.

"You've come late, Optimus." The voice was sleek, if voices could be sleek. Dark and rich in a way voices had no right to be, but harsher than a globule of hardened metal grated against a blade.

The Prime looked slightly perplexed. "Do I know you?" Deep words that rumbled up Daystar's struts. The twin shivered.

Ionicon shook his ragged helm. "We have never met." He took a solid, slinking step forward. His pede scraped in a hiss against the floor. "It is not because of any past contact that I have come here. You can put your worries and your guilt at rest, Prime." Mockery, if the Prime could see it.

Apparently, he could, judging by the narrowed gaze. But the mech chose to ignore it. Fool couldn't even defend himself. "Why _are_ you here?"

Ionicon made a motion that Daystar had come to associate with a shrug: a black wing fluttered and his head cocked till the narrow chin touched his shoulder pauldron. It looked a bit contorted, to Daystar. "I am here to fetch something of mine."

"And that is?"

"My twins."

The Prime visibly blanked, optics shuttering multiple times in confusion. "What?"

Ionicon's vocals descended from the icy to the truly glacier. "My _twins_. Their names are Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Have. you. seen. them?" As though he would tell the Autobot's their plan in its entirety.

Daystar snickered to himself. _Stupid-afts._

"That cannot be all you have come for." Ooorrr maybe not.

"I have the support I need to rip this place apart; why would I need any other reason to do so?"

The Prime took a step forward, so that he and Ionicon were mere servo-lengths from one another. Behind him, the Autobot forces slipped into the rec room, facing off with the remaining Coalition soldiers that stood to Daystar's back. The Prime spoke again, and all listened carefully. "Because you know they are not here, and yet you stay, wasting resources in an attempt to destroy us."

Daystar started. Not here? The last of their number, gone? He cast a glance in Jade's direction. The femme looked resigned, angry, and yet smug at the same time. _Creator always _was_ tricksy…_

Ionicon didn't seem as surprised by the news - at least, not that Daystar could tell. "Why waste energy chasing them down when I can force you to bring them to me?"

The Prime looked thoroughly disgusted. "And what could possibly motivate me to do as you say?"

"I have your ship, and by extension, your soldiers, at gunpoint. You would be sparkless to sacrifice them in order to keep a sire from his sparklings…"

Blue optics narrowed. "Sparklings?"

Ionicon's amber gaze burned, and thin lips split in a small smile. "Speaking metaphorically, of course."

"Of course." The deep vocals were heavily laden with suspicion.

Heavy pede-steps brought the assembly's attention to movement in the Autobot ranks. Mechs were shifting aside to allow a dark blue frame passage, every Autobot either shocked or wary at the sight of the newcomer.

Ionicon's stance stiffened, and Daystar could've sworn the Prime's optics crinkled with a smirk.

"Observation:" Droned a heavily affected monotone that sounded like a drone with a virus. "Interloper: is now the one outgunned."

The third in command of the _Decepticon_ forces took his place beside the Prime, Red visor a sinister glow above an expressionless mask.

From Nightstar's side of the bond, Daystar could've sworn he heard a faint, alien word that sounded very much like: _:Shit…:_

* * *

_In the Decepticon base…_

_"Hello? Hello?! Fraggit, is anyone there?"_

Silence answered the comm. The Decepticon's control panel, used for all communications and usually run by Soundwave either manually or at a distance, was unattended. Starscream's screech ripped through the speaker system once more, laced with background sounds of warfare.

_"Is there anyone? Primus damn you to the _pit _if you're ignoring me, Soundwave!"_

Scarlet optics eyed the controls from the shadows. Megatron blinked slowly, listening to the sound of his second-in-command panicking over the comms the gladiator was currently refusing to answer.

_"Shockwave? Hook?! Slaggit - _Motormaster_?! Any mech capable of rerouting this call or sending support, answer me!"_

Megatron lifted a cube of medical grade energy to his lips, wincing at the bitter flavor.

_"…Megatron…?"_

Silver digits jerked, splicing medical grade down his scarred chassis. Blood-red optics speared the console with an intensity most mechs had come to fear, and few had come to hope to see directed at them.

The voice that came through was not Starscream's. Or rather, it _was_ Starscream's, but not the seeker_ he_ knew. The one he had never met; the one that Starscream claimed was breaking free, loosening the holds of his character programs. He didn't know _how_ he knew. As in many things that had been proven true and furthered his success, it was instinctive.

His digit was pressing down the comm before he could think better of it. "Starscream?" He rasped.

For a moment, there was no answer. Then the seeker's screechy vocals blasted at him, full of Starscream's characteristic sass and irritation.

_"What the _Pit_, Megatron? I didn't ask for you! Get Soundwave on the line!"_

The Deception lord's faceplates were cast into shadow, but his optics glowed with a bitter hate. "Unfortunately," He replied calmly. "Soundwave is occupied at the moment, as I will be, momentarily. What is it you require?"

_"Fragging _Shockwave, _if there's no one else!"_

"There isn't." He ended the call before Starscream could finish his last indignant screech.

For a few moments, the gladiator's shadowy bulk remained hunched over the control console.

And then the thing was hissing - sputtering around the blade that had been rammed to the hilt into its facade. Sparks spat onto pale, gleaming plating, and red optics glowed.

_"Shockwave."_ Megatron commed the scientist.

The response was immediate. _"Yes, Lord Megatron?"_

_"I need you to do me a favor…"_

* * *

Author's Note: Another chapter up! :D This one was a bit of an odd one, considering all the things that needed to happen in order to set up for the next chapter...but I think it turned out okay. Any OOCness on Thundercracker's part was intentional and caused by his reuniting with Skywarp. That's my excuse, at least. ;) Poor Megatron! T-T He feels so betrayed, but doesn't want to admit that such a "small thing" could affect him so badly... Still, he needs to get his head out of his ass. He has some Autobots to save, and only one night to do it.

I do apologize for the excess of OC's and the extremely sudden appearance of Cliffjumper's supporters. I realized they were necessary for the battle after I had posted the last chapter, in which you were supposed to get a hint of their existence. They'll be further explained in later chapters, so don't worry about them going away or all being magically defeated by the combined Decepticon/Autobot forces next chapter. ;)

I hope to be able to post again soon. Thanks to those that have been following/reviewing/supporting this story! I'm actually a bit surprised it's survived this long; I had designed it in the beginning to be a test for style, plot development, etc. Now, I'm already planning a sequel, and we're not even half-way through the first one!

I couldn't have done it without my supporters, so here's to you!

On that note, please review some more! ^-^


	9. The Phoenix Reborn

Author's Note: Wow! I've got another chapter and it hasn't even been a week yet! :D Granted, this one is mostly fun or interesting scenes that need to occur before things start getting a little more intense. I'm still setting up for something, and I'm sure that once you see what it was, you'll understand why it's taken so long to prepare for.

Oh my gosh! I have quite a few people to thank this time around.

First of all, I want to thank those who reviewed the last chapter:

**PrimalScreamer**

I'm not sure if they would like to remain anonymous or not, so I'll just thank the _**Seven people**_who have decided to follow this story. You know who you are... ;)

Lastly, I'd like to thank the _**Th**__**ree people **_who have favorited (yes, it's not a word, but oh well) this story. Again, I won't say your names in case you'd rather I didn't.

To all of you, as well as to those who have reviewed in the past, thank you so much! You're the reason I've been able to keep this up for as long as I have, and I'm really glad that you've enjoyed it.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the OCs and the plot.

Chapter Eight

"If I am to die, may it be for the sake of those who will benefit from my sacrifice. Let me die on a battlefield, battered down in the act of defending what is right and innocent in this world. If I have life within me and wings upon my back, do not let me falter. Let me fight until the end, and die without remembrance. I am a soiled tool of virtue, desperate for redemption." -Thundercracker

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Joor: half an hour_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

_Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet_

_At the Ark..._

Bumblebee was afraid.

Little digits trembled, rattling with the strength of the sparkling's fear; wide, aqua optics glowed brightly from the shadows of a brig cell. Outside the locked cell, planted firmly in front of the control console that was the only requirement for entry into the sparkling's hideout, Gears stood guard, trying stoically to ignore the sparkling's pitiful display.

Gears was a minibot; small, old, and worn. His paint was a dingy green and grey swirl over aged, scarred plating, and his servos shook as blunt digits curled around the hard shell of his blaster rifle. Gears was old, but he would be damned to the pit if he allowed any of Cliffjumper's mob to finish their leader's work, begun all those years ago on the night of Bumblebee's birth. Rusted joints were forgotten; Gears was ready to die if it meant the little ball of Adorable in the cell behind him would survive.

Judging by the heavy impacts and explosions outside the brig doors, death was a distinct possibility. It meant they had been discovered, and the enemy wanted _in_.

On either side of him, the hallway stretched into blackness. The brig was designed as a long, thin chamber that descended down two levels; a path lined on both sides by heavily fortified cells that, just as they prevented a mech from escaping their sizzling forcefields, also served well when jerry-rigged into a defensive position. One just had to have a guard on the outside, to stop anything from keying in the release codes.

At the mouth of the corridor, heavy double doors gleamed in the dim lighting, barely shivering under the barrage of explosions and gunfire that assaulted them. The doors were meant to protect the rest of the _Ark_ from any escaped prisoners, and had been personally manufactured by Wheeljack himself. They had once been used as his blast doors for his lab, but had been repurposed as brig doors once Wheeljack had managed to create a more efficient set to replace them. In short, Gears didn't think anything short of in-space weaponry systems, most often found on the sides of battle cruisers, was going to get through those doors. Hackers, though, weren't uncommon; if the enemy used their processors instead of their fire-power, Gears - and Bumblebee - were as good as dead.

A mournful warble sounded from the cell behind him. Gears pried his dim optics from the trembling double doors, and gave the runty sparkling a grunt of inquiry.

Just as little lip-plates opened to click another complaint, the ventilation duct at the other end of the brig fell to the floor with a thunderous clatter.

Bumblebee gave a terrified series of bleeps; Gears was already whirling, joints grinding painfully together, making his movements jerky and stuttered.

A blue visor glowed cheerily up at them from the deep end of the corridor, and First Aid's small smile shined out of the darkness.

"I thought you could use some help." The junior medic croaked, dust and cobwebs - a parting gift from Earth - clogging his vents.

The mech had sprawled in a graceless heap after knocking out the vent cover; his red and white form was a twisted mess of limbs sticking out at odd angles, but apparently nothing had been broken. Gears snorted, raising his fire-arm so that it wasn't leveled at his fellow Autobot.

"Kid, I nearly shot you a new aft-hole."

First Aid laughed nervously, rolling painfully to his knees and brushing the grime from his plating. "Well, I couldn't think of much else to do…"

* * *

Bright blue optics watched the exchange dubiously. Rising to his little silver pedes, the sparkling tiptoed until he was barely a digit's breadth from the crackling purple wall that was supposed to keep him safe. Narrowed optics eyed the newcomer with no little suspicion, raking up and down the adult frame with a look of careful evaluation that swiftly morphed into utter scorn, once it was discovered that the bot had no weaponry to speak of. The unfamiliar, weaponless, and somewhat piddlingly sized mech committed his final sin in the sparkling's book when he ignored Bumblebee - and his scrutiny - entirely, focusing instead on a no doubt incredibly boring conversation with Gears.

Now thoroughly convinced of the bot's irredeemable character, Bumblebee huffed back to the far wall of his cell. A little aft plopped onto the cold metal floor, popping immediately (and with no little enthusiasm) back up once the temperature was properly noted. The next klik was spent trying to discern if the adults had witnessed the less than dignified mistake.

Once it was determined that they had not, a sullen huff was resumed, and Bumblebee did his best to portray three things: his disgust at the newcomer (directed at any or all of the mech's attributes), hurt feelings caused by both adults' lack of attention directed to the resident sparkling in their midst, and indignation at the unprecedented temperature of his intended seating.

Seeing as neither Gears nor the mysterious "First Aid" were paying attention, all three portrayals went without an audience, and were soon abandoned in favor of the incredibly interesting task of picking at a long, barely visible scratch along the sparkling's left forearm. Hygiene must be maintained after all, and Ratchet would be very displeased if the medic discovered he had let such a mar on his finish go unnoticed. What scratching at it was meant to accomplish hadn't been decided on yet, but it was interesting enough that Bumblebee felt he could make the effort to come up with _some _reason.

Something slammed against the forcefield right in front of him, sizzling as the object's weight ground it into the burning purple surface. Bumblebee started violently, scrambling backwards instinctively and gaping in horror at Gear's faceplates; at the silver features contorted in pain and shock, bubbling as Bumblebee's protection ate away at cheeks, lips, and optics.

The sparkling couldn't look away. He watched, terrified, as metal dripped, stained a dingy green and grey by melted paint mixed in. Blue optics flickered and died, their light and inner workings revealed as glass shattered and sputtered, trickling down a liquified jaw and into thick neck wiring. Gears' vocalizer sputtered a last rasping, distorted groan filled with an agony that could not be related through weakening systems. His spark, ripped open to the air before he had been rammed against the forcefield, guttered…and died.

The dripping, sizzling frame fell to the floor, released by its attacker now that Gears was deactivated.

Behind the body, eyeing the corpse with an amber visor filled with disdain, First Aid stood, a harbinger of death.

Bumblebee scrambled forward, heedless of the menacing junior medic, a ragged warble laden with static guttering from his vocalizer.

"G…! Geh…!" The sparkling's little silver lips choked out, his voice rough and distorted. Shaking digits came just shy of the forcefield, reaching out. Then Bumblebee's optics focused on the sizzling purple shield still speckled with Gears' remains, and the sparkling flung himself back with a bleating cry of horror. Harsh sobs racked the tiny frame, and coolant tears poured in thick rivulets down rounded silver cheeks.

A red and white frame bent down in front of the shield, knees bent, wrists laying loosely on the bot's thighs, so that red servos dangled freely between them. The amber visor flickered, and the frame's coloring soured from red and white into a messy, artistic representation of space. Little white dots surrounded by faint glows spattered the frame as stars; swirls of glittering greens and purples formed galaxies, curling around brilliant swathes of midnight blue. The amber visor remained, but the frame itself changed; shoulders broadened and the mech's body slendered, jagged armor plating replacing First Aid's rounded edges.

Black faceplates, handsome and sleek, quirked as a smirk contorted dark lips. "There, there, sparkling." A whispery voice, high and sibilant, filtered through the cell's speakers. "I'm not here to hurt you." Shadow-like claws caressed the cell's control panel, and Bumblebee scrabbled further back into the cell, optics bright with fear, mouth gaping wide. Tears trickled faster down stained silver faceplates, and the sparkling wailed, the sound ragged and ripped by terror.

The mech who had impersonated First Aid ignored his cries, punching in the release button on the control panel. The amber visor glowed more brightly than ever before. "You're the payment Ionicon needs, to satisfy those Coalition dogs of war…"

The purple shields lowered with a last powerful thrum-

-and Bumblebee bolted, little pedes screeching and throwing up sparks against the metal floor.

Behind him, the strange mech cursed, his heavier strides shaking the floor as he gave chase.

* * *

_Outside of Praxus…finally…_

Thundercracker roared in pain and rage as another plasma bolt ripped into his right wing.

To his left, Skywarp's damaged vocalizer wailed aloud, a blast of fear and static. "T.C!"

Starscream only gave an unearthly howl, ducking out from behind their cover and letting loose a furious barrage of null-ray fire.

Blackjack, as Skywarp had termed their adversary, gave an uncharacteristically high-pitched yelp as a stray blast hit home, directly between his thighs. The ashen-colored mech fell back onto his aft, scrambling awkwardly behind cover of his own. His curses were foul, and though Thundercracker almost sympathized, he couldn't stop himself from taking great pleasure in their enemy's pain.

But when Starscream buckled, optics flickering and servos clenched rigidly on empty air, he felt nothing but panic.

"Starscream!" He, Skywarp - he didn't know who yelled the name. He always had an odd taste on his glossa when he spoke it, as though he were tasting something ancient. He didn't taste anything but his own energon as he bit down on his own glossa in shock, so he probably hadn't said anything.

Starscream's frame was bucking as though the seeker were being riddled with blaster fire. He was writhing violently along the ground, the terrain caking his limbs and wings with rust. Thundercracker had moved before the thought; white plating was under his digits as he fought to still his trine-mate.

"Skywarp!" He yelled, but realized he didn't know what he wanted the other to do. Skywarp was too weak to do anything but hobble his way to them. The purple flier collapsed onto his knees on Starscream's other side, red optics wide and dazed-looking.

Starscream's vocalizer sent a hum through Thundercracker's digits; the blue seeker whipped around to look into scarlet optics - only to stare when he saw the strangeness in them.

Starscream's gaze was cold and cruel, calculating and cataloguing everything about Thundercracker's battered frame. Even as the dark lips sputtered and gasped, those optics remained carefully calm, the lack of recognition in them cutting into Thundercracker's spark.

_But…he said he would be the one to disengage the programming…_Thundercracker felt as though he had just stepped off a cliff into open air, with his wings and turbines sawed off. He remembered the words clearly:

_"The lies. Your act; it's a program, you told me. So, what will happen when your fabricated character is dissolved?" His own words, referring to a mega-vorns old conversation._

_"I return to my original personality."_

Starscream had lied. The program was failing without the fictitious Air Commander's intervention. The "original personality" was waking up, regaining dominance, after a million years of slumbering through war.

It was something Thundercracker logically understood. He could think the words; understand them even. But now, in the face of the reality, he _refused _to believe them. He hadn't had enough warning. It was too soon.

"Starscream…!" He hadn't felt his body make the decision to speak, and the voice that came from his vocalizer was so raw, so desperate, that at first he didn't recognize it as his. He _wanted_ the friendship he had worked so hard to forge; the familiarity of the Starscream he had known from his first hours as a Decepticon. He _wanted_ his commander to stay, and he didn't care that that person was a lie anymore. A lie was easier to accept than the fact that the Starscream he knew would soon be gone forever, and what was left in its place would be - though real - more foreign than the Earthen plains of Africa. "Starscream!" He shrieked, his voice higher than it had ever been. He sounded like Skywarp.

Dark lips parted beneath his gaze, and the icy distance in the scarlet gaze remained. "Who are you?"

It was Starscream's voice. It was Starscream's face. It was, in the most honest sense, Starscream. But Thundercracker knew in that moment that the mech he had known and admired for over a million years was dead.

He stared into the face of the stranger in his arms, barely hearing Skywarp's faint "T.C? What's going on?"

Thundercracker released his now still and somewhat wary burden, and collapsed into himself. He curled inward, wings folding around his back, servos clawing Skywarp's weakened frame into his embrace.

He didn't notice the severe lack of Blackjack in their vicinity. He didn't dare to look into the surprised, vaguely intrigued stare that the new Starscream was casting in his direction. He shook silently, and fought to contain his grief.

It wasn't fair. In less than a human minute, without any warning or farewell of any kind, the mech he knew had died.

* * *

_At the Ark..._

The negotiations - if that was what they called them - had been going on for ten kliks straight. Ironhide revved his engine angrily, glaring daggers at the collection of amber-eyed freaks behind the mech who called himself Ionicon. They were all lithe, sharp-edged bots; two pairs and one loner. The loner was quiet, taller than the others; broad and threatening, equipped with few weapons but obviously capable of handling himself. Ironhide had traded a few blows with the bastard, and found that he had not enjoyed the encounter. Neither had his near silent enemy, once he got an up-close introduction to Ironhide's meticulously kept, well-stocked cannons. They had parted ways with an unspoken agreement to avoid one another in the future, though Ironhide hardly intended to keep his end of the deal.

As far as he could figure it, the amber-eyed group were neutral citizens gone bad. Their names were unfamiliar, and their builds were too unusual not to have been noticed by _somebot_, so they must have been hiding somewhere for quite a while before deciding to come out into the open. They wanted to find a pair of twins, and had thought - for some bizarre reason - that they would run across them in the _Ark_. As far as the Coalition was concerned, Ionicon claimed he'd brought them as back-up. Ironhide called Bullshit. The Coalition was quick to assert that they weren't leaving without Bumblebee, and at that, the Autobot forces had bristled. In poker terms, the Decepticon forces had seen the Autobot's bristle, and raised it a mass weapons cock. The Coalition remnant shifted like restless deer between Decepticon blaster sights, but held their ground.

Ionicon had stepped between both sides, claiming that all could be resolved peacefully.

Optimus had agreed, and then graciously indicated the exit to help his "guests" along. Ironhide loved it when the Prime did that. Wasn't often one could find a mech who could be respectfully diplomatic and sassy at the same time. Ironhide hadn't given much respect to politics at all until he'd met Optimus.

They were at an impasse.

Ionicon wouldn't leave without his twins, and he wanted the everybot from Optimus to the Coalition to help him get them. The Coalition refused to help unless they got Bumblebee. Optimus refused to help period, and refused to let them _have_ Bumblebee. Added to that, the ruined rec room and moans of the wounded were grating on Autobot and Decepticon patience. Tensions were mounting.

And then, the worst mech to handle such a situation strolled through the rec room doors, which were flapping weakly back and forth, blocked from closing by a severely burned, Autobot-sized sofa.

Megatron hadn't changed much since the end of the war, which had been the last time Ironhide had seen him. Tall, well-framed, and more scarred than a blade shoved between helicopter rotors, the Decepticon lord radiated scorn like Earth cows radiated the smell of manure. Prowl, who stood to Ironhide's direct left, had a single servo planted firmly beneath his chevron, and was shaking his head in despair. Ironhide didn't know much about politics, but he could tell the sight of Megatron was bound to make the Decepticon-hating Coalition/Cliffjumper fanbots go just about ballistic.

Ironhide readjusted his cannons, not entirely unhappy with the predicted outcome. He'd never liked the Coalition. They were upstart Autobot pretenders, claiming to idolize their martyr's beliefs - beliefs Ironhide found not only ridiculous, but repulsive.

Cliffjumper had held to the claim that peace was not a valid end to the war unless all Decepticons had died in its achievement. The bot didn't understand the concept of redemption. Ironhide had always known redemption was rare, but at least he acknowledged its existence. Cliffjumper had denied it and called it a fanciful notion. During the war, this hadn't been a concern. They needed hard-sparked bots to defend against the Decepticon elite, and Cliffjumper's unusual outlook on a bot's morality had ensured that he didn't hesitate when confronted by an enemy. Death was instant and nonnegotiable, in the red minibot's book.

And then, there had been that night. The confusing haze of betrayal and hope that had resulted from Bumblebee's birth. Where the little sparkling came from was a mystery; First Aid had claimed he didn't know, and Starscream had not allowed himself to be questioned on the matter. Cliffjumper was dead, so any hope the Autobots had at discovering Bumblebee origins were buried with him, in his grave.

Why Cliffjumper had demanded the sparkling be killed along with all the Decepticons, rather than allow Bumblebee to tie the factions together in peace, no bot knew. First Aid refused to speak about that night, and the Coalition simply held to the same principle; they didn't care about the reasoning behind it. They trusted Cliffjumper like some bots trusted Optimus; without question, as a physical and spiritual leader who had died for the sake of peace; of a world without Bumblebee and without Decepticons.

And here, in the rec room, the most Decepticonish Decepticon ever to walk Cybertron, the origin of the faction and its driving force, stood proudly before them. The symbol of everything the Coalition stood against.

Optimus and Ionicon wouldn't stand a chance, trying to control _this_ confrontation.

It was going to be one hell of a fight.

* * *

_At the Decepticon base..._

Sideswipe watched as the large, one-opticked Decepticon scientist dragged the last of three unconscious seekers through the med-bay doors.

"I thought you said you wanted to take more tests on _us_." He remarked meaningfully, eyeing a second slack-jawed seeker's upside-down face where it flopped backwards over the edge of a medical berth. Sunstreaker was taking notes on the hues of violet in the flier's paintjob, making a few appreciative remarks on the paint's vivid iridescence.

"The wounded state of high priority Decepticon officers unfortunately takes precedence over further exploration of your sparks." The mech's deep, clear words were free from scorn. In fact, he sounded honestly disappointed in the dictations of priority; almost pouty, even, if he weren't too dignified for that sort of thing.

Sideswipe didn't like Shockwave. The mech didn't have a face, making his emotions and intentions impossible to read, and he'd spent far too much time performing tests on the twins to hold any place of affection in their sparks.

Sunstreaker couldn't make out much more than Sideswipe could. The mech was build heavily on the top, with large shoulders and a long, spiked helm. His optic took up the majority of the helm's front area, making him look distinctly alien. Most mechs had faces, or something to hide faces. Beneath the thick chassis was a waist so thin it was almost comical, and thighs that barely rounded to form a relatively flat aft. Sunstreaker was unimpressed by the mech's aesthetically standards already, and he hadn't even considered the pedes. Two gigantic pads swooped down from powerful calves, forming a sort of T-shaped pede at the end of either leg. The last note was that any mech so devoted to his cause that he would replace his _arm_ with a _cannon_ was unlikely to be susceptible to persuasion of any variety.

So bribery was definitely out, and Sideswipe doubted they could appeal to whatever this mech had in place of a sympathetic side. With their luck, he'd have replaced _that_ with a grenade launcher.

As strange as it seemed, honesty might be the best manner of attack. "Well, if you don't let us go within the next solar cycle, the chances of this base being reduced to ashes go up into the one-hundred percents."

The single red optic turned onto him, glowing brightly. Sideswipe waited expectantly, feeling Sunstreaker's own anticipation throbbing in his spark.

"There are no one-hundred percent_s_. There is only one 'one-hundred percent'." The broad purple shoulders rolled back as the mech turned away from his patient, and approached. Sideswipe's servos twitched nervously in the stasis cuffs that had been clapped on both he and his brother, watching the scientist's nearing frame warily.

Sunstreaker let out the lowest of growls as a purple claw jabbed into Sideswipe's personal space, hovering in front of his faceplates. The red twin crossed his optics as he tried to keep the digit in focus.

"Any further attempts to sabotage my medical attempts will be severely punished." Shockwave threatened, still in the same calm, almost conversational tone.

And then the scientist was moving away, thin hips swaying in time to each calm, measured step. Sideswipe let out the air he had been holding, hearing it hiss through his heated vents.

They watched in silence as Shockwave's enormous claws delicate pinched wires free, twining together processor threads and picking out fragile datachips from the blue seeker's helm.

_:If he touches you again, I'm ripping his digits off, ramming them into his wrist joint, then feeding him the whole arm through his vocalizer.: _Sunstreaker's fury was intoxicating, but Sideswipe was too worried about how they were going to get off the base to revel in the sensation.

_:You're going to rip off a mech's arm just because he got a little close?: _The red twin managed to joke, already frantically searching his processors for another method of escape. Shockwave had said the interrogators were alive, but had other business to attend to. In all likelihood, they wouldn't get any help from Optimus Prime or Megatron until it was too late.

_:Who said I'd rip it off before feeding it to him?: _Sunstreaker growled darkly. _:And stop worrying. There's nothing we can do.:_

_:So I should stop trying to do anything, because it's hopeless? I wonder why I call you Sunshine, sometimes.: _Sideswipe snapped back, irritated. Here he was, trying to save their lives, and Sunstreaker had suddenly decided to give up? What had happened to the unity they'd managed to solidify only breams ago?

Hurt and frustration roiled openly into the bond, startling the red twin with its intensity. _:I'm saying you should save your energy for a real opportunity rather than try to _make_ one, Sides.: _The emotions quieted, hidden subtly behind a mental barrier. In their place, Sunstreaker's reasoning took precedence, forcing arguments for patience and persuasive reasons for inactivity. His brother's hatred of the "Sunshine" nickname had been smothered within the bond for the sake of making the golden twin's point; a quiet presentation of Sunstreaker's plan, and an even quieter request for trust. That garnered Sideswipe's attention, even if the use of his own nickname from Sunstreaker's mental lips would have snagged his notice anyway. It appeared that Sunstreaker held to the age old assertion that Overkill was Underrated. If he wanted attention, the golden twin would enact about five ways to get it…at once.

_:Sooo.: _Sideswipe said after a moment of shocked silence. In a way, Sunstreaker had just given him a gift; a look into his brother's thoughts on the matter rather than the bare content. For that, Sideswipe was willing to trust his twin's judgement. Sunstreaker so rarely asked for trust; when he did, it was nigh on impossible to deny him. Sideswipe grinned, paying no attention as Shockwave shot them a quizzical stare. _:Wait for the triumphant return of our prisonkeepers before blowing this joint?:_

Sunstreaker snorted through the bond, retreating back into his reserved shell now that he'd made his point, and garnered approval. _:You give them too much credit…:_

* * *

Author's Note: Well...there we are. Now you know a bit more about the Coalition, as well as Ionicon and his gang. Granted, Ironhide's description of the events leaves much to be desired, but we'll see things from a more realistic perspective next time...hopefully...if they aren't all dead by then... 3:)

Some of you might be wondering who on earth the shape-shifting mech is. I promise you will find out, and that he is not a convenient OC. Just my version of a pre-existing character.

Starscream's "death" is meant to be sudden and unexplained. If you're currently confused and wondering what the hell just happened, that's good. Even if you aren't and you've understood the situation as well as you can with the given information, that's fine. I know I say this a lot, but everything has a reason. At least, everything I've managed to think of...I may have missed a few plot-holes, and at the end you'll probably call me out on it and demand my head in recompense, but I've tried my best to make sure that won't happen.

Until next time!

Please review!


	10. Drowning In The Ashes

**Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm so sorry it's taken this long for me to upload another chapter; I've had a lot of things to do I wasn't planning on having to do, and this chapter was incredibly hard to write. Please let me know if there are any errors you find; I have no beta. What I do have is an enormous headache, and it makes writing difficult.**

**WARNING: There is rough language in this chapter. The F-word is used. You've been warned. (It's very brief, but it's there.)**

**Hope you like this chapter! **

**Special thanks to those who reviewed and favorited/followed this story from last time! You guys make this story worth writing.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own shit. Especially not Transformers.**

Chapter Nine

"When you're alone, deep in space, there will be times when you end up talking to yourself. That's just normal. Don't worry about it. It's when you realize you have a crush on your washrack that you know you've been gone _way_ too long." - Smokescreen

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Joor: half an hour_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

_Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet_

* * *

_At the Ark…_

Little pedes pounded over even, sleek floor. Silver, dirtied plating flashed as Bumblebee's small, thin form darted past a shaft of sunlight, sending rays ricocheting into the menacing shadows that seeped into the hallway, seeming to smother whatever light sought entry. A single kick against the steel floor sent his tiny figure soaring, arms and legs desperately extended, into open darkness. An opening loomed, and the figure flew through it with inches to spare, writhing its small body and flailing through the air. Once through, its limbs spread wide once more, and the sparkling fell down in an open-armed descent down the inside of the elevator shaft. His delicate digits rapped harshly against wires, keeping his fragile frame a safe distance from cables that could shred through the thin plating that covered his body at these speeds. Air whistled past, licking over his sleek, energon-streaked chassis and his simply shaped box-helm, biting cruelly at the horn-like protrusions that served as sensors. With a high-pitched cry, the form curled tightly, angling its feet and spinning forward until it almost brushed the wall. With a snapping motion that cracked in the rushing air, it unfolded. Tiny servos flared, spreading digits wide, and then-

_Slam_! The digits caught. Bumblebee came to a jerking halt, smacking against the wall and bouncing away, held midair by a convenient - and familiar - ladder-rung. It was the top bar; placed immediately above it was a square indent sliced thinly along its length in several places. The grate he had opened, once upon a cycle that seemed so long ago now. His movements were trembling, tense with fear. He heaved himself up onto the top rung, releasing his digits from the bar as quickly as he could. Sparks flew as one of his digits snagged and was pulled free. Bumblebee gave a shocked warble, optics snapping wide, clutching the wounded appendage to his chassis and pressing himself harshly against the grate, away from the ledge.

Quiet, rasping sobs echoed in the lengthy elevator shaft, and the sparkling's tears ran clear tracks through the gore that covered his frame. Gears' fluids had stained him as he fled the brig. Bumblebee tried not to look at the blue rivulets and silvery bits mixed in; the mess of molten mech covering his body.

He had to find help.

And there was only one mech he knew who Bumblebee was certain could protect him from anything. Anything at all.

* * *

_In the rec room..._

It happened so fast.

All around Daystar a battle raged like the wind storms of Vos. Mechs flew briefly through the air, either by design or lack of attention to their surrounding foes. He heard a piercing shriek, and a shard of metal buried itself entirely within the wall behind him.

Scrambling frantically away, Daystar's quick gaze searched the heaving, jerking mass of bodies for his twin. They always fought best side by side, and at the moment, he felt unequivocally afraid of the seasoned veterans around him, and very willing to seek support.

They had never met warriors like these. He'd heard stories, of course; Blackjack always whispered tales to them of the times when Decepticons attacked his encampment, or when the Autobots drove hoards of empties and other unsavories away with their falsely noble intentions. But the Coalition mechs he'd sparred and the other neutrals he'd tested or killed were nothing compared to mechs who had lived their lives soaring through space, setting galaxies alight with their war, and passing safely through the flames. He'd never quite grasped the meaning behind Ionicon's words, "They've survived themselves for centuries", not until now.

But as he watched, two black and white autobots seamlessly danced around one another, firing and slicing their weaponry into enemy ranks with a precision and grace only years of hardship and war could teach, and Daystar knew what it meant to 'deal out death'.

Twelve Coaltion mechs had been deactivated, twenty had been put out of commission, leaving a paltry sixteen to battle against the combined Autobot and Decepticon forces in the limited space of the rec room. Not a single Old-War mech or femme had been killed as of yet, that he had seen, and very few had fallen out of the fray.

It was like pitting scraplets against one gladiator; a few seasoned war-makers against numerous and impassioned, but inexperienced, neutrals.

Daystar searched more energetically for his twin, feeling shivers creeping up his spine. His own family was not much better than the Coalition, though they undeniably had more talent and advantage.

He found Nightstar amid a group of vibrantly colored Decepticon seekers.

The black twin was spinning and writhing in place, his flexible frame bending painfully in order to bring his long, twin blades around him to hack and tear into his enemies' plating, eating into the delicate internals within.

The trio of seekers that surrounded him were not heavily damaged by his maneuvers, being quick enough to dodge most slashes, but they were finding that attacking the black body within the whirling cage of blades in kind was more difficult than it seemed.

Daystar bolted forward, feeling his spark leap with relief. But before he could reach the group, it happened.

Something ripped through his shoulder, blasting out of his front in a fiery purple eruption.

He stopped, shock holding his body still. Nighstar's roar of shock at the ghostly sensation of pain the dark twin felt from his wound ripped through the bond to him, but he barely twitched. Pain blossomed from his upper left side, through his arm, chassis, and neck; the kind of deep, throbbing pain that grew so fast and so greatly that all he could do was shiver; he couldn't even think.

Claws sunk into his side, grinding against his internals, dragging him back and lifting him effortlessly into the air. He opened his lips wide - soundlessly shrieking - as pain and energon spilled into him, blue trails of his lifeblood spattering the silver plating of the enemy beneath him in thick, heavy streams. His fuel tank had been ruptured.

_:It's okay!: _Nightstar's not-quite-a-voice was uncharacteristically ragged; strained. Daystar's thoughts were scattered, but he clung to his twin's words as a lifeline, his vision flickering. _:I'm coming - I'm almost there!:_

Suddenly, it didn't matter that he had never really cared for Nightstar's attitude or his silence. His bitterness was a vague memory. He was afraid. He didn't want to die.

_:Nightstar-!:_ He spasmed as the mech who held him captive tensed, his hold shifting in Daystar's middle and scraping against his bloody tank.

There was a heave - he was flying through the air, weightless, agony blinding him to his whirling surroundings-

He hit the floor.

His arm came loose and spun away. His intakes felt torn, shredded by the screams that ripped themselves free from his vocalizer.

Darkness swallowed him whole, and he knew no more.

* * *

Nighstar's pedes landed on the spinal strut of the mech who had just thrown his twin, sending force rippling through his enemy's structure. The black twin's blades slipped into chinks in the Decepticon's heavy armor, but encountered additional, unexpected protection.

With a speed that seemed impossible, the silver frame beneath him twisted, and a pale, massive servo flung him to the floor. He rolled, splashing through his twin's warm, wet energon where it pooled on the floor, and coming to a jerking halt in a crouch, facing his twin's attacker.

Lord Megatron returned his murderous gaze with a calculating glare, the Decepticon's posture deceptively relaxed and at ease. Nightstar could only guess at the coiled tension beneath the scarred silver plating, and the skill within those enormous servos.

A single, white digit pointed lazily at Daystar's body where it lay, behind Nightstar's crouching form. "I'm sorry, was that yours?" A deep, rasping voice grated in the dark twin's audials, but Nightstar did not let the mockery affect him.

To Nightstar, most emotions were ultimately lacking; they didn't hold enough meaning in them to portray anything of value - not as efficiently as other methods did. Anger was fleeting and confusing to his processors, so it was discarded as inefficient. Fear did nothing to further his survival since his own logic was advanced enough to provide him with a great liking of self-preservation. Fear was unneeded, and so was also cast away. Sorrow had no point; grieving was for his own benefit, not for whatever he was grieving for, and he didn't think the experience helped him much in the end. Sorrow too was abandoned. But love…he didn't understand love well enough to feel comfortable forsaking its use. He didn't even know if one could _use_ love, so great was his ignorance. Anger could be used, but was inefficient; fear was also used, but ultimately redundant; sorrow was a waste of energy. But love…

Love was what tied him to his twin; a sort of love he felt was necessary to their continued existence. It was not warm, like the love some mechs and femmes shared, or so he had been told. It wasn't very pleasant, though Blackjack had explained that love usually was. It was simply there; a painful throb when Daystar was wounded, a swell of pride when his brother brought them success, each feeling carefully controlled - as carefully as he controlled every other part of his being. Daystar was petty, and childish, but Nightstar knew that without his twin, life itself would be empty for him. It was the defining key of his existence, and he could not understand why he felt no resentment toward it.

So when the Decepticon asked him if Daystar was his, Nightstar refused again to feel any anger, fear, or sorrow. Instead, he took a defensive stance, and waited for his opponent's first move. Daystar _was_ his, and no bot touched what was _his_. Daystar had always been his to watch, and his to love; _his_ to provoke when he felt the desire to do so, and _HIS_ to feel at his every waking moment and every second before he recharged - and even within the swell and fall of slumber. Anything that attempted to sever him from what was his would very swiftly after find itself in an extremely…_unpleasant_ state. His love for his twin, strange as it was, drove him to this conclusion, and he allowed it to.

When he didn't answer, Lord Megatron continued, taking a languid step forward. "Listen to me, soldier." The scarlet optics, half-lidded in a display of careless disregard, burned with an intensity that gave the lie to the Decepticon's charade. "You have very few options left to you. Let me offer a solution."

Nightstar blinked, but did not reply. The red gaze narrowed, and Megatron began his proposal.

"You obviously care for that craven creature," He indicated Daystar's prone form with a tilt of his massive helm, but did not break eye-contact. "And though I wonder at the strength of your passion, I do understand its compelling nature.

"I will give you the opportunity to surrender. Then you may both live."

"I hardly think he's going to agree with you, Decepticon." A new voice cut into the one-sided conversation, its owner emerging from a cloud of smoke.

The squad commander of the Coalition soldiers was formidable, in both name and appearance. His designation was Killjoy, if Nightstar recalled correctly, and it fit the rust-red shuttlemech far better than Nightstar's own title did him. Killjoy was massive, as most shuttlemechs were prone to be; jagged and thin in all the places he could be. His helm was more like a crown of metal horns, each bent and curving back like some sort of explosion frozen mid-burst. His optics were yellow, as all neutrals' were, and his face-plates were smooth and white. Killjoy's frame was an odd mix of the skeletal and the bulky; huge shoulder-mounts perched on a jutting chassis that tapered into a ridiculously thin waist, for example.

And yet, despite his awkward shape, the shuttlemech was by far one of the most proficient Coalition soldiers in the entirety of the ranks.

His stride was even and powerful, and the blazing hate in his gaze, directed into the Decepticon Lord's own, was nothing short of volcanic. When he spoke again, his fair, tenor tone pronounced the incongruity evident in every other part of him. "The mech serves his sire, and _only_ his sire. But you, with your traitorous rabble and disastrous leadership, would hardly understand the concept of loyalty, would you?" It was heavy with mockery.

Megatron sneered, his attention momentarily snagged by this new annoyance. Nightstar shifted silently backward, toward the center of the rec room and his bleeding twin.

"Ah, _Killjoy_. I see you have found yourself a new cause to promote."

The mech's lip curled. "I have found my true calling, even though the barbarism of it repulses me. We cannot all be what we want to be, Megatron; not while our homeworld burns. If you had seen this in the beginning, the innocents you _butchered_ would have been spared-"

The ring of metal on metal was deafening; Megatron had struck the first blow, slamming a clenched fist into the shuttlemech's faceplates with unbelievable speed. Not waiting to see if his enemy recovered or not, the gladiator slung his enemy's arm over his own shoulder and heaved, sending both rolling in a painful cascade of weight and limbs to the floor.

They writhed and grappled there, until the red shuttle came out above Megatron, straddling the gladiator's middle. Dazed and disoriented, the big mech's attempts to beat Megatron's face into the floor flew far off their target, slamming like individual freight trains into the Decepticon's chassis. Megatron _oof_ed, optics flickering and servos twitching, before responding in kind, snarling like a beast and ramming a vicious uppercut under Killjoy's chin. Killjoy's optics fizzled out.

The Coalition mech fell backward with a sound like a collapsing building, limbs and joints groaning.

Megatron scrambled gracelessly to his feet, reflexively dodging a stray blaster shot and returning fire without looking. The wail of another Coalition soldier as the Decepticon leader's shot hit it's mark set a smirk on the warlord's lips. Megatron turned back to the center of the battle, searching for his previous quarry-

-Only to stop dead at the scene before him.

He was not the only one to see the sight. A hush fell quickly. All battles ceased. Prowl and Jazz, only a few mech's lengths to Megatron's right, were frozen mid-flip, Prowl's helpful hand shaking violently where it clasped Jazz's aft, previously assisting the saboteur into the air. Jazz's legs quivered with the strain of keeping them upright, but his visor was captivated by the sight which had rendered them all so numb.

On dark blue knees, directly at Ionicon's feet, Optimus Prime knelt, his back facing the dark, battered seeker. The Autobot leader's heavy red shoulders were hunched and his head was bowed, massive arms curled tightly around his chassis. The Autobot's whole frame trembled.

_Drip…drip…drip…_

Blue stained the floor; the surrounding mechs watched, captivated, as a thick pool of energon seeped out around the Prime, soiling his gleaming plaiting, running in thick streams down his back and dripping down to the floor in a grisly display. The Prime's vivid, ocean-blue optics flickered, pale silver lips parting beneath them in a pained, soundless gasp. It was a painfully honest expression; so strange to see, since the Prime's face-mask lay in its own puddle of energon several meters to the Prime's left.

Megatron's blood red optics were glued to the trembling silver lips. The gladiator's frame was so tense and still that cracks appeared in the knuckles of his already battered servos. Similarly, every mech in the vicinity seemed frozen - even Ionicon, who stood behind the Prime. The dark seeker watched his shuddering adversary with an unreadable expression, his own severed wing held stiffly away from him, dripping with the Prime's energon. It had obviously been ripped from his back during the course of the battle, as the sparking, jagged joint suggested.

All watched, stupefied, and tried to make sense of what they were seeing.

As they stared, the Prime's arms gave a slight shift. A small, silver faceplate peaked out from the protective embrace. Bumblebee's soft, questioning churr sent shivers through the mechs closest to the scene. It was confused, fearful, and so…unknowing. A silver digit crept out as well, and poked the Prime's rigid faceplates. Optimus shuddered violently, optics closing, and the spell that had held them all immobile was broken.

Jazz and Prowl leapt forward, Megatron one nanoklik behind them. The Decepticon heard Ironhide's roar of rage, thunderous and deafening, as well as the humming charge of Soundwave's sonic cannon preparing to unleash its fury.

But they all skidded to an ungainly stop once more as Nightstar slipped, eellike, behind the Prime in one fluid motion, his blade hissing as it kissed against the Autobot's throat. Black claws curled around a glossy red shoulder plate, and Optimus gasped as his frame was hauled roughly back until his spinal strut ground against Nightstar's chassis.

The dark twin's expression was blank, but his amber optics glowed like twin flames at Megatron. Dark lips parted, and a hoarse, ugly voice warbled out; weak and high-pitched.

"I'm sorry," He purred. "Was this yours?" Behind him, Ionicon shifted, eyeing his darkly colored prodigy with a measuring look. He did not intervene. Nightstar continued. "Listen to me, _Decepticon_." He hissed in brutal mockery of Megatron's own words. "You have very few options left to you. Let me offer a…solution.

"You obviously care for this _craven_ _creature_," The blade rasped against Optimus vocalizer. The Prime gasped, optics flickering, his arms closing more securely around the sparkling in his arms. The surrounding Autobots and Decepticons twitched forward. Nightstar smirked, still meeting Megatron's gaze directly and specifically. "And though I wonder at the strength of your passion, I do understand its compelling nature. I will give you the opportunity to surrender. Then you may all live."

Killjoy's slurred objection rang into the following silence. "What? You swore to us-!"

Ionicon raised a single servo, amber optics glowing brightly. "You will get your prize…eventually." He soothed. His gaze was directed behind Megatron, and, warily, the Decepticon cast a glance in that direction.

A blue and yellow praxian held the bleeding form of Daystar close, a blaster pressing against the unconscious twin's helm. Smokescreen, if Megatron was remembering correctly. The mech's blue optics were ablaze with fury, but when he spoke his voice was calm and cool. "That's right, scumbags. Hand us over the Prime and the sparkling, and we'll retreat."

Ironhide's frame rattled in protest, but Jazz's hand pressed warningly against the weapons specialist's arm. Megatron frowned.

He opened a comm, confident that Soundwave was directing the communications as he had been during the battle. He wasn't mistaken.

_"Are you certain?"_ He asked, and noted Smokescreen's jerk of surprise, meeting the bright blue gaze that flicked toward him.

_"There isn't any other option. Prowl's made the call."_

_"This situation is not stable enough for the limited abilities of _any_ mech's battle computer."_

_"He isn't using one right now."_

Megatron's frown lessened, and he felt his respect for the black and white autobot grow. _"I have no other alternatives." _He admitted grudgingly.

_"Niether did Soundwave. He suggests-"_

But Ionicon was speaking once more, and they cut the comm in unison.

"As you say." The neutral addressed Smokescreen cooly, and nodded to the dark twin. Nightstar withdrew his weapon immediately from the Prime's neck, and Optimus slumped forward as the neutral twin swiftly retreated. Megatron crossed the distance in two lengthy strides, catching Optimus' weight and hefting him with a grunt to his shoulder. Optimus' energon slicked the Autobot's plating, making the task difficult, but it wasn't long until the Autobot leader lay, securely wedged and supported by Megatron's arms, slung along the Decepticon's angular shoulders. One arm and one leg dangled on either side of Megatron's hips, and he clasped the remaining limbs firmly to his chassis to keep the Prime's balance stable.

He trusted Soundwave to watch for any signs of double-cross as he withdrew, allowing Jazz to slip close and extricate a loudly protesting Bumblebee from Optimus' plating, which the little one had been clinging to desperately. The sparkling's cries rang loudly as the Autobots and Decepticons carefully withdrew, but Killjoy's protests swiftly drowned out anything else.

"How can you let them be? Are you _fools_?" The shuttlemech roared, towering over an unfazed Ionicon, who did not so much as glance at him. "How is that _scrapheap_-" He thrust a blunt digit at Daystar's battered body, which Nightstar was carefully tending to with the help of Ionicon's remaining soldiers. "-Worth losing a chance to kill the Prime _and_ the whelp!? How can you make such a trade?!"

The last of the Autobot and Decepticon mech's backs vanished from view through the rec room doors, and Ionicon's optics finally graced his rust-red lackey with a disdainful glare. "We would never have overcome them, not with our losses as they are and the death of their leader and precious sparkling fueling their rage and strength. We would have been defeated by their vengeance, even if every single one of them had died to do it. Better to wait until we can rout them soundly, rather than incite a wrath we cannot defend against."

In the shadows of the rec room, a certain starry-colored mech leaned casually against the wall, ignoring the labors of his comrades with cool disdain. He bared his denta in an ill-humored grimace, amber visor dimming angrily, oblivious to the strange looks he received.

The sparkling had fled straight into the arms of the most capable mech to defend him, dodging through battling mechs and blasting explosions; overcoming all odds and screaming his way into the Prime's surprised hold. Of course, Ionicon had seen his chance. The Prime had barely managed to turn his chassis away and bare his back, protecting the tiny burden in his arms, before the dark seeker had struck his blow. It had been impressive, but somewhat disappointing.

The shapeshifter snorted. Of course, the sparkling's escape would be laid on _him_, despite the fact that the little brat had used cheap tricks and slipped easily through ventilation ducts that _he_ hadn't even known had _existed_. Whoever had taught the brat how to use such methods was going to die a very painful death, if he could manage it. Until then, however, his orders were to wait, and to hunt. They were still short a set of twins.

Before him, on the floor, Daystar's body spasmed. The whelp's twin, Nightstar, shuddered, and the femme twin, Jade, placed a comforting hand on the recalcitrant mech's shoulder.

The shapeshifter glanced at Daystar's body, wondering what had elicited such openly emotional interaction between twin sets. He blinked at the gore that met his gaze.

Huh. They might be short _two_ sets of twins, if they didn't get a proper medic soon.

"Makeshift!" Ionicon's voice rang out, cold and murderous - unusual, for the usually calm and collected maniac.

The shapeshifter sighed, and let his helm fall lower. With a reluctant step, he began to make his way over to the battered black seeker, offering a half-hearted sneer.

* * *

_At the Decepticon medbay..._

Warmth. It surrounded him, cushioning his aching body with delightful comfort; seeping into his internals and soothing parts of himself he hadn't even known were damaged. Thundercracker tried to enjoy the sensation of listless floating as long as he could, not at all eager to leave his pleasant bubble of heat. Voices chattered somewhere distant; one was familiar, and the other wasn't. He didn't mind their noise; the sound was lulling, like deeply pitched music. He could even distinguish words.

"-think he's waking up…" The familiar voice murmured.

The stranger whistled. "Pit, you guys really caught some slag, didn't you?"

A snort of disdain. "Slag? _Slag_? My mech, we caught some fragging _shit_ is what we caught."

A pause. "Mech, I'll be honest. I don't have a clue what 'shit' means."

"Oh. _Really_?"

"Truly."

"Means organic excretion from the aft area."

The room practically stank of disbelief. The unfamiliar voice sounded equal parts disgusted and skeptical. "You're kidding."

"Not so. Learned it on a backwater organic planet called Earth. The inhabitants are a really creative bunch."

Thundercracker snorted, unable to refrain from speaking. "You only think they're creative because they had the foresight to lead Starscream into a flock of geese."

Metal scraped as the other mechs noticed he was conscious and reacted accordingly.

"T.C! You're awake!" Something clanged its way to his side, and digits brushed against his chassis, seemingly checking his welds. As if Hook's work was ever anything but perfect, but Skywarp had always been a worry wort when it came to his trinemates' injuries.

Thundercracker chuckled, but did not open his optics. He wanted to savor the sleepy sensation that was swiftly leaving him, the warmth replaced by cold steel against his back and heated digits inspecting his wounds. "Stop pawing me, you goof." He muttered, slapping halfheartedly at the servo that had delved into the wiring in his side. Skywarp's pout was all but audible.

"But you were asleep for ages!"

The stranger's voice piped up once more, and Thundercracker started. He'd almost forgotten its existence. "'Asleep'?"

"Recharging." Skywarp explained, sounding as though he weren't really giving much thought to his words. Thundercracker smirked, imagining the purple seeker as he tried to evaluate the patches and welds from a distance so that Thundercracker wouldn't notice.

The blue seeker opened his optics, looking past Skywarp and towards the place where he had heard the voice, a smile on his lips.

The other mech was in the shadows at the other end of the medbey, and he wasn't alone. Beside him sat another form, silent and sullen, cold yellow optics narrowed at Thundercracker. The first mech was a bit more friendly looking, a smile glinting from the shadows that hid his frame from view, gaze narrowed with curiosity. They were both wearing stasis cuffs, but he could distinguish nothing of their frames.

Thundercracker was a bit surprised to see imprisoned neutrals in their medbay, but knew it would be highly injudicious to ask them outright what they were doing here. Neutrals were a touchy lot, as he had learned during his time as an officer of the law under Prowl's management.

Instead, he tried a different tactic. "And you are?" He asked politely.

The first mech, the cheery one, became even cheerier at his notice. The white grin spread wider, like a slash in the shadows. "Sideswipe." He answered, and the golden gaze flicked lightly in his sullen companion's direction. "And this is Sunstreaker."

Well, that was nice. Or it would be, if he'd ever heard the names before and known of the mechs to whom they belonged. Thundercracker nodded, and turned his gaze to Skywarp.

His trinemate's features were clean and smooth; Hook had done good work. Skywarp's vivid, scarlet gaze burned into him with a pleasant intensity, the silver lips below tightened in a slight frown. Thundercracker wondered at the somber look; usually Skywarp was all smiles when he woke. Then the purple seeker spoke.

"T.C, what happened to Starscream?"

Thundercracker froze. He could hear the screeching grate of his own systems as they locked up, but he barely felt it. Skywarp's curious, somewhat worried gaze filled his vision; he saw nothing beyond those wide, glowing orbs.

"T.C…?"

"Looks like he might glitch." Sideswipe's voice remarked casually.

"Shut up!"

"Just saying; you might want to get out of the blast radius."

"You're not helping!" Purple hands on his shoulders, shaking him till he rattled. "Thunder? Thundercracker? What the frag happened that you can't tell _me_!?"

"Why're you so special again?"

"I'm his fucking _trinemate, _asshole!" The teleporter's voice was equal parts venomous and panicked.

"…His _what_? And _what_ did you call me?"

Skywarp ignored Sideswipe; Thundercracker felt the other seeker shake him more violently. "Thunder, what's going-?!"

"He's dead."

The silence that fell was rigid; tense and shocked. The clink of a digit falling limply onto a metal surface was deafening, bolstered by the lack of sound from other sources.

Then, Skywarp's voice came. "What?" Thundercracker had been expecting the shock, and even the tremulous quaver of complete disorientation. What he hadn't been expecting was the fury that seeped into Skywarp's scarlet gaze; the rage that seethed, icy cold and painfully sharp, just beneath the glowing, glistening glass of his trinemate's optics. "Thundercracker." The teleporter's white fangs, delicate and evenly spaced, bit his full name out as a scraplet might bite a section of metal from a dead bot's plating. It was a rare thing when Skywarp used his entire designation, but never before had he said it with such anger.

Jolting, Thundercracker realized his mistake. "No - he's not dead, not really, but - well, it isn't - you see - it - it's not _him_!" He started in a rambling mutter, but ended in a shriek that rattled a few tools that lay on a nearby berth. He was panting, looking desperately into Skywarp's furious stare, searching for some kind of understanding that he _knew_ he wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- find. Skywarp had never known; neither Thundercracker nor Starscream had ever seen fit to inform him that the air commander was an invented program. It hadn't seemed…necessary…

Or maybe he had simply dreaded the reaction his trinemate would have.

Whatever reaction Skywarp might have had to hearing that the mech he had believed was his trine leader was another mech's creation, it could not have been as bad as the look Skywarp was giving him now.

"Explain." The purple flier said - or he would have, if the red alert klaxons had not, at that exact moment, blared to full and deafening life.

"Well, looks like someone's home." Sideswipe's voice chirped from the shadows at the other end of the medbay.

* * *

**Author's End Note: Yes...I know. Very little in here aside from action and plot moving along. That's mainly the reason why this was so dang hard to write; it's not yet at the point where I can actually reveal anything yet! Don't worry though, from here on out things will be picking up and you'll get to know several things:**

**1) What the heck happened the night of Bumblebee's birth (from First Aid's point of view),**

**2) Backstory for the twins,**

**3) The reason why Thundercracker has been an emotional train-wreck for the past couple chapters.**

**At the beginning of the chapter, you may have noticed that the section where Bumblebee is running is practically verbatim from a previous chapter. That was intended. :) It's meant to draw a parallel between his happy times as a carefree sparkling and his time now, hunted by Makeshift in his own home, covered in Gears'...stuff. :p Just so you know it wasn't laziness or anything.**

**Again, thanks SO MUCH to those who've supported this story. Here's to you *raises headache medicine bottle in a toast*.**

**Please review and let me know how you're liking it! Gives me more of an idea of whether I should speed things up or slow them down. If you have any notes or comments on ANYTHING in the story (i.e. writing style, plot, characters, etc.) please don't hesitate to write me, whether in a review or in a PM.**

**Until next time!**


	11. The Dust Settles

Author's Note: I finally managed to update. I'm sorry; this one is a lot shorter, and it's mostly character play. I've been really busy, but hopefully the next chapter will be a more reasonable length. Hope you like it!

WARNING: This chapter contains dubious content, i.e: romantic scenes, and a strange (read: disturbing) relationship. I think that's all the warnings for this one.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story from last time! You make this author a disgustingly happy person. ^^

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs (of which, in this chapter, there are _many_).

Chapter Ten

"Why do you desire the darkness? Why admire that place of shadow and repute, where only the strongest are said to travel and return from? Because you're all fools. You don't see the treasure that lies in living beneath the sunshine, in peace. You're blind to the nature of the things that wait for you in the dark, because you want so badly to be like them; revered and feared.

Fools.

If you enter the dark, you will be nothing but dead. In that place, like devours like." -Ionicon

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Joor: half an hour_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

_Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet_

* * *

_At the Ark…_

The Autobots and Decepticons had retreated, leaving the _Ark_ to those who would use it. The Coalition mechs, what was left of them, returned to their own base of operations. This left Ionicon and his mechs (and femme) with an excellent new home of their own, all to themselves. Of course, there was too much to do for them to properly enjoy their prize.

Darkened optics stared unseeing into the shadowy ceiling space of the _Ark's_ medbay. Once vividly colored plating (oranges and yellows and pale, creamy whites all streaked onto smooth armor) was darkened to a dirty, dull mess of rusty shades of sunset colors. The lithe frame lay limply, pathetically, on a flat berth, its middle torn and shredded, blue liquid seeping out. Other wounds dripped energon messily onto the once-immaculate floor, splattering the reflective surface with thick, glowing globules.

Daystar's body was not devoid of life. A light still flickered weakly in his spark casing, and the digits of one servo twitched with a series of _clicks_.

Beside the young mech, a dark, one-winged form sat on a stool. Amber optics examined the gaping wounds before them, carefully taking into account each detail - each scrape against paint and tear in glossy plating. Ionicon's black lips were pressed tightly together, a flat line on his otherwise emotionless features. His servos were still; they rested lightly on his thighs. The seeker was tense; beside him, on an adjacent berth, medical supplies and several suspicious-looking tools rested, seeming to mock him: _Doesn't know how to use us, does he?_

The amber gaze narrowed, no longer seeing the devastation wreaked on the twin before him.

Seconds passed.

A black servo suddenly left its perch on his leg, deftly plucking a welder from the pile. Sparks flew as he soldered the open wounds, his grip steady and firm. Red-hot lines brought the thinnest cuts together, sealing them closed. As soon as the last was completed, Ionicon's servos flew to the pile of tools once more, dark digits snaking between the massive rend in Daystar's side once they had claimed the proper equipment.

For a joor, the black seeker worked to save the life of his creation.

As that span of time was coming to a close, the medbay doors irised open with a hiss. Ionicon's wing twitched; the empty wing-socket beside it jittered noisily. But the seeker did not turn to see who had joined him.

Makeshift's sleek, pointed figure greased its way into the chamber, every move dripping with reluctance. Behind him, the door spiraled shut once more. The shapeshifter jumped at the noise, obviously on edge. His helm swiveled back to the black seeker and the body he tended, and the fiery visor dimmed.

"How is he?" Makeshift asked, his smooth voice echoing oddly.

Silence answered him for several seconds, before Ionicon let out a deep ventilation, leaning away from his patient's body and setting his tools aside. The work was shoddy at best, but it performed its function. Daystar's body hummed on, and his spark flickered more brightly than before.

"Only time will tell." The black seeker answered his minion, watching the dancing spark in his creation's chest with an intensity that sent shivers up Makeshift's spinal struts. "Now," And the black helm turned calmly toward him. "Tell me what happened."

Makeshift's vents rolled heavily, releasing a gust of air as he slunk to a nearby berth and hopping onto it, servos falling to fold between his knees, helm bowed in recollection.

"I took on the form you suggested - thought the sparkling would like to see his savior's faceplates, right? Would make him easier to handle if it was someone he knew as safe. But the brat knew I wasn't on the up and up from the start."

If Ionicon didn't understand the "Earthisms", he didn't show it.

"It doesn't make sense!" The shapeshifter snarled heatedly, visor dimming to a murderous shade of red. "My disguise was flawless. The bot was his fragging _savior_! There was no way I should have been suspected."

Ionicon's expression was thoughtful, a slight frown on his lips and in his gaze. "Such an abnormality is to be expected, given what he is."

For some reason, this comment set a fire in the shapeshifter's processors. Makeshift suddenly jerked to his pedes, fury in his movements - reluctance long forgotten. He prowled back and forth, movements not unlike a caged predator. "No it fragging isn't!" He hissed venomously, leveling his anger at his master. "The truth is, we don't know what in the _pit_ is to be expected, precisely _because_ of _what he is_!"

Amber optics narrowed a fraction, but Makeshift went on. "Frag - I don't know what to expect from _your_ brats, half the time! Why do you want Bumblebee alive, anyway? Why bother snatching such a troublesome burden - _one whose limits we don't even fully understand_ \- only to hand him over to the Coalition to get butchered?" Makeshift ended with a digit pointing accusingly at Ionicon's faceplates, his frame a tense tower of anger, confusion, and frustration. "Or maybe you aren't going to do that." He hissed, visor darkening to the color of coals. "Maybe you want to bolster that freak-show of yours. Maybe you want to add Bumblebee to your gang of abomina - _hurk!_"

Static sputtered from the shapeshifter, squeezed from his lips by the crushing grip on his intakes. He hadn't seen Ionicon move. His own star-spangled claws scraped desperately against the seeker's own sharp digits, trying to loosen the merciless hold.

Amber optics burned into him, heavily lidded. Beneath them, the black lips twisted in a scornful expression that held in it more anger than Makeshift had ever seen in his master's features before. Ionicon was a small seeker; delicately built. His slim, scarred arm should never have been able to lift Makeshift's larger bulk from the floor, holding the shapeshifter aloft in the air, pedes kicking out feebly beneath him. But the firm grip held, and the single arm that was holding Makeshift aloft did not so much as tremble.

His vision was flickering - Makeshift sputtered and writhed, desperate to free his agonized intakes. He barely heard Ionicon's voice in his audial as the mech drew him closer, somehow keeping him aloft and yet bringing them helm to helm at the same time. A second servo gripped his chestplates, curling under the lip of the plating that protected his spark. Makeshift froze, optics wide.

"Perhaps that _is_ my intention." Ionicon's voice whispered, air dancing over Makeshift's sensitive audial covering. "But if it is, it's certainly no business of yours to know it."

The grip on his intakes tightened, and Makeshift felt his processors overheating, sending the world around him spinning in a dizzying spiral. He clicked feebly, his glossa trembling as it ticked against his dentas.

Then he was rolling - swallowing wonderful, cool air into his intakes. He lay on the medbay floor for a few moments, unable to do anything but shiver and choke down air. His processors cooled, and he heard Ionicon's next words clearly.

"Now get out."

He complied as speedily as he was able.

* * *

Ionicon watched the shapeshifter scramble gracelessly from the medbay, plating rattling in confusion and fear, throat sparking and dented. The seeker's optics narrowed as the doors irised closed behind the retreating mech. Silence reigned once more.

And then, from the shadows, Blackjack's voice drawled his customary greeting. "Sorry, sweetheart. Is this a - ah - bad time?" Ionicon spared the mech a glance. Blackjack lounged in the medbay rafters, two arms holding his balance, the other two held in elegant, but odd, positions in the air, as though the mech was some sort of Towers mech from the golden age. His long black legs were crossed at the ankle, and the heels of his pedes rested gently on the top of a light fixture.

Ionicon's lip curled, and his optics dimmed to a fiery tint. Annoyance was read easily in his features. "What are you doing here?" The black seeker replied coldly.

"Coming to see my darling creation is what I'm here for, _sweetheart_." The torturer grinned cheesily, placing great emphasis on the endearment. Ionicon turned sharply away, and began cleaning the gore-covered tools he'd used to repair Daystar.

Blackjack gave a huff, his expression falling into a childish pout. His frame lost its elegance and became drooped, as though he were slung like some sack across the rafters instead of reclining skillfully.

"Oh come now," He wheedled, rolling in a series of swift, continuous movements until he dropped to the floor in a three point landing. Well, more like five point, since only one of his four arms remained separate from the gleaming floor. Soundlessly, he rose from his crouch, sashaying in a very feminine manner until he was able to lean provocatively against the table on which Ionicon's tools rested. "You aren't still sore about _that_ whole thing, are you?" He coaxed, brow-plates waggling. Ionicon ignored him, but the next tool was set down with far more care and attention that it deserved. A sure sign of anger, when it came to the battered black seeker.

Blackjack pouted once more, but whirled out of his position again, slouching to Daystar's bedside. The torturer's pointed helm cocked to one side as he examined the repair work, glossa swiping over his lips in a strange display of interest. "You patched him up well, I'd say." He commented in a neutral tone, apparently no longer offended by Ionicon's cold disregard. The seeker gave a barely audible grunt in reply.

Blackjack's gaze grew distant as he stared at Daystar's faceplates. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its cheer and all its concealing familiarity. It was deep and rough - very _real_, as though Blackjack had been acting a part and had only now thrown off his charade.

"I remember how this one was born…" He murmured.

Ionicon's methodical cleaning did not pause. The seeker's features remained cold and emotionless. But his amber optics _gleamed_.

"Do not think too much of it." His soft, sibilant voice rolled out. "It was done by necessity."

Blackjack's faceplates were hidden from view, but his words were equal parts bitter and amused. "As is everything you do…" The torturer's own gaze rose and locked onto his companion's one-winged back. "…_Sweetheart._" He hissed venomously, a sharp grin slicing across his features, optics narrowed in an indiscernible expression. Ionicon had ceased moving, but did not turn away from the berth before him to look at his companion. He seemed almost resigned - but hardly submissive.

Slowly, carefully, Blackjack's pedes stepped against the glossy medbay floor. They brought his tall frame close to Ionicon's smaller figure until his chassis brushed against the seeker's wing, pressing past it until the edges of his chestplates _tinked _against Ionicon's spinal strut. He curled and bent his own spine, until his larger body surrounded Ionicon, his arms and servo's braced on either side of the seeker, digits clinking gently against the tools littering the berth's surface.

For a moment, neither moved.

And then, slowly, softly, both mech's optics dimmed in sync. Ionicon's thin digits slowly left the berth's surface; reached up over his own shoulder to brush against Blackjack's cheek. Blackjack's servos left the berth and skimmed over the seeker's sides, settling on scarred black hips, and he hummed deeply.

Unseen by his companion, Ionicon's optics lit up once more. They were no longer amber, but a deep, poisonous purple. The seeker's black lips spread in a full, sharp grin that looked wrong and distorted on his faceplates. His remaining servo slipped behind him, crawling over Blackjack's side until his digits could clasp at the torturer's back, bringing both bodies forcibly together.

Blackjack hissed, his frame tensing in pleasure.

Ionicon's uncharacteristic grin grew, and his purple optics glowed with a strange, malicious amusement.

* * *

_In the Ark's Brig…_

It was cold. Axelond's warm ventilations misted in the air, moistening his plating and freezing in artistic swirls of icy particles. The melted remains of an Autobot were chilled into a solid metal mound at the base of one of the prison cells. Axelond did not know the bot's name, and he could not care less what it was. The lights in the brig flickered and sputtered, their wiring damaged by scattered blaster fire during the battle. Sparks sizzled in the air from severed cable ends, hissing as they made contact with the pool of energon on the floor.

Axelond watched it all with an empty, uninterested expression on his dark faceplates - a shadowy coloring inherited from Ioniocon, his sire. His plating did not so much as sheen beneath the sickly yellow lights of the brig; it was painted a flat black matte that was intended for stealth, not show. Long legs ending in sharp, solid pedes hung over the edge of the step he sat upon, his spine unfurled into a relaxed sprawl that draped Axelond's lithe body over the stairway's three top ledges.

He was tall, for one as young as he. The others thought they were fully grown, adult mechs and femmes - even Nightstar, who was wiser than the others by a fair amount, was under this delusion. Axelond knew better. They were not even close to full maturity in any sense, and their accelerated growth in both body and processor was unprecedented.

This information had come to him mostly by chance. Axelond did not speak often. He rarely wasted any energy he could possibly conserve. But he listened, and his hearing was good. He'd heard stories from Coalition mechs; had caught whispers from his fellow 'neutrals' in New Kaon and New Polyhex, where Ionicon had stationed their base of operations. Ionicon and his creations - for that was what Axelond and the other sets of twins were - may have lived in the ruins of Praxus, but they could not operate from there. And so, the dance club had been created in New Polyhex, hiding secrets and ambition behind it's dancing femmes and colored lights. Their forces resided there, waiting for the plan to reach its zenith, and begin its soaring, downward strike.

The things Axelond heard from his fellow cybertronians told the lone twin much; enough to know that he and his brothers and sisters should never have existed. With the destruction of Vector Sigma, all hope of future life had been destroyed; no sparklings could be brought into existence without it.

And yet, here they were…they, and Bumblebee.

Abominations, just as Makeshift so often claimed.

Axelond shifted his position, spreading his legs further and laying his smooth, plated helm back against the floor, closing his optics. Blackness replaced his pale surroundings.

He heard her before he saw her. Soft steps made by the dainty, pointed feet only a femme could possess rang like soft musical notes in his audials. Her ventilations were gentle gusts in the frosty air; he could imagine them misting before her, forming patterns on the femme's emerald plating and amber optic lenses.

Axelond smiled to himself. It was a small expression, barely a tick at the corner of his lips.

The steps stopped just behind his head, and he could hear the tremble in her joints - taste the fearful apprehension in her every move.

"Axelond…?" Her voice was lower than most femme's, and slightly rasping; a tentative address.

His digit tapped a single note on the step beside him. She understood. Tremulously, but fluidly, she moved around him, seating herself on the place beside his digit with a clank of metal against metal - almost thunderous in the still silence of the brig. The warmth of her frame seeped into his left servo, and Axelond opened his optics. A pale ceiling greeted him, marred by the sight of a bent and battered ventilation duct just above. He did not shift his gaze away from the uninteresting sight.

Jade's voice broke the quiet again. "Axelond…Does Ionicon love Blackjack?"

He wondered what she must have seen. Usually their guardians were quite discreet. But whatever had put the idea into her head, the question was easy enough to answer.

When he shook his head, he was surprised to hear a disappointed sigh from the femme. "I wish they were."

It was so childish…but it was also endearing. He rolled onto his side, ignoring the uncomfortable edges pressing into his hips and chassis. His elbow braced against a step, and he laid his chin in the adjoined servo. His perplexed look spoke for him, and Jade laughed.

Now that he was fully looking at her, the femme's beauty was hard to ignore. Fiery eyes glowed with soft emotions, and silver faceplates puckered in pleasantly shy expressions. Jade's plating was sleek and her shape was thin. He wondered if she could dance…

"Why do I wish they were in love?" She interpreted. "Well…I think it's because I want them to be happy, like normal creators."

He decided to use his voice to convey his next point. "They aren't normal." Three words spoken in his sharp, clear vocals.

Jade froze in shock, but he ignored it. It would wear off. He waited for her to reply, staring deeply into her gaze and noting the delicate sensors behind her optic lenses. After about five seconds, she spoke.

"Why do you say that?" She asked softly, and her optics widened and creased with confusion. "They aren't very different from the other couples I've heard of…"

Axelond couldn't help but snort, and turned reluctantly away from that captivating gaze. If he looked any longer into it, he might find himself doing things he would later regret.

"Axelond…" It was as though she tasted the name; he could imagine her glossa wrapping round the syllables and stroking his designation into life. He smiled to himself, and let her continue. "If they aren't normal, that would mean we aren't either. After all, something strange can't give birth to something ordinary - it doesn't have anything ordinary to make it with. What makes us all so different?"

Axelond turned slowly to regard the femme, and maneuvered his frame into a crouching position. His joints hissed together loudly, and Jade shifted nervously away, scooting sideways until her lithe body was pressed against the opposite wall. Axelond did not pursue. That would have been foolish.

Instead, he let his smile fade, letting a blank facade fall over his faceplates. "Where's your twin?" He asked.

Jade blushed with sudden anger - her cheeks flushed dark blue. "W-where's yours?" She whispered defiantly in return, optics narrowing. But her fear was obvious. Her digits, clenched around her shins, trembled violently.

Axelond stared into her slitted optics, reveling in the life they held. He could see her wariness; her caution and terror; there was defensiveness there, as well, and a fiery independence. All in two large orbs…

He grinned, not releasing her gaze. "He's dead." He gritted out, and successfully ignored the storm of agonizing instincts and emotions the words woke in him. He had become quite adept at that. The lifeless bond that had once tethered him to his twin felt like a rope without an end, floating listlessly in black, somber space.

Jade looked terrified, but she soldiered on. "Why did you kill him?" She quavered, and he could tell she had been wanting to ask this question for quite a while.

He answered honestly. "I hated him. And he was a burden."

For some reason, the femme seemed to crumble. Her gaze grew distant, and her lip trembled. "I think that's what ebony thinks of me." She murmured, so quietly he couldn't be sure she had meant him to hear. Nonetheless, Axelond did hear, and he was holding her chin before he knew it, turning her face sharply toward him and centering her attention on himself. Her plating flat smooth and warm beneath his touch.

He ignored the sensation, and bared his teeth meaningfully; expressing everything his words could not. "He will have to go through me."

She looked dazed, but her focus was undeniably upon him - or rather, his lips. "I wonder why none of us work well together…" She whispered. "Wouldn't you think twins were meant to be together?" Her optics flicked up to look into his. "That we would love our other halves? None of us do…I don't even think Swipe and Streaker like each other much."

"Maybe our sets are improperly matched." The words were out before he realized he'd spoken. Jade blinked, confused, before a comprehension lit up her features.

"Oh…" She breathed. "So, we need to find our match? We've been jumbled, and we have to find which one we belong to?"

She smiled, and it was like the sun rising over a dark horizon. "I think like that…"

If he was honest to himself, the idea was quite pleasant.

* * *

_In The Rustlands..._

It would be easy to imagine the military base of a capable force like the Coalition to be impressive. One might picture soaring watchtowers, thick walls, and small windows of thick, reenforced glass. It might perch like a bird of prey on a massive ledge in the side of a sizable mountain; a smokey gray fortress filled with war-hardened mechs, determined to save their nation and planet. The sky above would be awhirl with acid-green clouds full of sizzling tears, droplets that would cascade in a dismal, deadly rain on barren ground darkened by craters and pock-marked by space-artillery guns.

This image, while true to the idea of the Coalition and in keeping with the facade they struggled to maintain, would be so far from the truth that their backs would collide.

The HQ of the Coalition forces was little more than an abandoned medical facility; a square, squat building set on flat, smooth ground. Around it there were the ruins of what had once been a neutral refuge during the Great War; living quarters crumbling into rust on a low hill sat not five mechnometers to the west, and, true to its designation, a mess hall lay in a jumbled heap of broken beams and shattered walls to the east.

The medical facility itself had been a dilapidated husk when the Coalition had discovered it. Compared with their other options though, repairing it had been by far the most cost-effective plan - and since weaponry was rare and expensive in peacetime…

Killjoy snorted at the memory of the many contorted plans they had concocted in order to stay alive and capable as a military force. The shuttle-mech looked over the place he had called home for several vorns now, and concluded dismally that, while it had been the best available to them, it had only just barely been worth it.

Behind him trailed his contingent; the mechs and femmes that had followed him in the raid on the _Ark_. Several wounded were being carried bodily into the base, their faint ventilations and laboring systems a chilling sound amid the otherwise commonplace bustle that accompanied disembarking their crafts. He himself had carried seven damaged mechs, being a middle-sized shuttle with medical supplies on board. They were already inside, and Killjoy was glad to be free of them.

The raid had been close to a disaster, despite being, in the end, successful. He'd lost many soldiers, and far more had been wounded. The superior battle experience of the Autobot and Decepticon mechs had been staggering…and crushing. They had seemed so at home amid the blaster fire and singing scream of blades through heated air. It had been one of the single most disturbing things Killjoy had ever seen, and it only strengthened his resolve to destroy both factions. Both sides spoke of peace and formed alliances, building a new government and placing their own alongside neutrals in managing it, but no mech who was so at ease and comfortable with battle - who had fought and lived in it for the majority of their lives - could possibly adapt to peace.

Even if they could, the peace itself was unacceptable. Decepticons allowed to govern and rule? The Autobots had doomed themselves when they made the agreement, siding with the enemy. Peace would not - could not - be achieved until the last Decepticon had been destroyed; the price they must pay for their crimes, as well as a necessary destruction of mechs who could never be redeemed. With their alliance, all Autobots had become no better than Decepticons themselves.

Killjoy strode through the opening front doors of the Coalition base, ignoring the sputter and wheeze of their mechanisms. They'd have to get one of the engineers to have a look at that…

Amid the chaos of disembarkment, a voice called out to him. "Commander!"

Killjoy turned to answer, recognizing the femme that approached as Captain Flareup; a seasoned femme veteran. One of the few that had left Elita One's famed squad. She was colorful and attractive; her plating was angular, painted with smooth, glowing reds and oranges. Her optics were still blue, tying her to her Autobot past, but they were narrowed with a fire few Autobot's could boast of. Killjoy straightened, and acknowledged his fellow officer with a salute. One was supposed to make optic contact in the Coalition salute, but she was quite small, and came up to about his middle, so he didn't bother.

Not that Flareup seemed to mind; he suspected she was used to it. "Commander Huffer wants a report." She informed him cooly, gracing his battered and discouraged mechs with a frustrated glare. Killjoy nodded, a flare of indignation lighting in his spark. She didn't know how hard they had fought, nor the circumstances of their victory, and yet still she watched them with contempt. The arrogance of the femme gnawed at him, but he remained silent on the point. Instead, he asked where he was to report - Commander Huffer had many haunts within the base that he visited regularly.

"The training room." She replied, a flash of vindictive amusement in the words. Killjoy scowled openly at her. Everybot knew what happened to officers who joined Huffer while he was training. Killjoy knew the femme was enjoying being the one to tell him, and that fact only fueled his rage.

"Manage this mess." He snarled at her, jerking out of salute and stalking angrily away, forcing mechs to dodge out of his path.

Behind him, Flarup sneered. "It certainly is a mess."

But he was too far away to make a reply. He stepped out of the main entrance chamber into a narrow hallway, ignored the wide-eyed soldiers that made themselves scarce at his approach. He had a commander to answer to, and he hoped the medbay had room for one more when it was over.

* * *

Author's Note: So there it is. A few more tidbits and some romance! (not all of it pleasant... :p) Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review so I know if it's terrible or not. I love my reviewers...They're so helpful, and I have great fun reading and responding to them. Thanks again, you guys. ^^


	12. Crossing the Distance

Author's Note: First of all, I want to apologize for not only taking an obscenely long time getting this chapter together, but posting and removing it prematurely. I'm sorry for getting all of your hopes up - won't happen again, I promise.

Sidenote: This chapter was a _pain_ to write. The next should prove far more interesting and satisfying, for me at least. ^^ For you, I hope both are satisfying and enjoyable.

As always, thanks to those who've been supporting this story! You've been the driving force for its continuation, and are my inspiration.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs.

With that, Enjoy!

Chapter Eleven

"Why use words when a wrench shoved good and hard up their fragging, idiot afts would work ten times better?" -Ratchet

"Normal speech."

_Inner personal thoughts._

_"Comm chatter."_

_:Bond Speech:_

_Astrosecond: 2 seconds_

_Klik: approximately five minutes_

_Joor: half an hour_

_Breem: nearing one hour_

_Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle_

_Mega-cycle: one human day_

_Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day_

_Vorn: approximately two months_

_Orn: five years_

_Mega-vorn: nine years_

_Mega-orn: twenty years_

_Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet_

* * *

_In Sector VI, twelve warp-jumps from Cybertron..._

"Your reasoning isn't even _hypothetically _feasible!"

"How 'bout I take 'hypothetically feasible' and _ram it up your exhaust port_?"

"Typical _femme; _trying to out-mech a _mech_!" Scarlet optics narrowed to furious slits, and the mech in question bristled as he spoke, his dark plating ruffling.

The blue femme opposing him sneered, looking woefully unimpressed at his display. Her pedes were planted firmly, their stance wide and brash. Icy blue optics flashed an angry shade of cobalt, and the femme's servos uncrossed from her chassis to hang, poised and tense, by her sides. "Say that again," She snarled. "And we'll see how 'mech' you stay when I rip your spike off and feed i-!"

"Chromia!"

Both bots froze. Chromia shot a glare over her shoulder, looking miffed at the newcomer's intervention. "Yes ma'am?" She drawled in a feeble show of the respect a superior officer was due. Chromia knew the approaching femme too well to do otherwise.

Elita One was a classic figure. When told they were about to meet the sparkmate of the Prime, most bots expected something slight and beautiful; birdlike and elegant. It was a natural result of being more widely known, not by her own substantial feats, but by her bonded's. But this expectation was far surpassed by the reality, in this instance.

Sleek, curved, and deadly; these three words alone could not do justice to the Femme Commander of the AFC (Autobot Femme Contingent). Authority dripped from Elita One, surrounding her like a cloud and demanding respect instantly. Grace was in every movement the rosy-colored femme made, and her optics had a steel to them that was both inspiring and chilling at the same time.

Elita One walked calmly to the arguing duo, her gaze piercing them both with disapproval. The Decepticon shifted uncomfortably, looking mollified, but Chromia stood her ground, every line of her firmly declaring her innocence.

The Femme Commander's optics narrowed. "What seems to be the problem?" She asked, careful not to clarify who she was addressing. Either Chromia or the Decepticon might take offense if the other was specifically chosen to relay the story.

But, as Elita had guessed, Chromia was the first to speak.

"Had a small disagreement, ma'am." Elita's second-in-command gritted out, shooting a sidelong glare at her opponent, who returned it with a sneer.

"Enough."

At her sharp word, both pretended they hadn't so much as heard of glares or sneers, much less given any. Innocent expressions wiped guilty faceplates clean, and both straightened until they were almost at attention.

Elita turned her gaze onto the Decepticon - Helex, if she wasn't mistaken. At least, that was the mech's codename. "And you, Helex?" She asked cooly. The mech's lipplates tightened into a thin line, and his gaze narrowed at being called to task by an Autobot. But he swallowed his pride and answered her carefully and succinctly - proving he wasn't entirely as childish as Elita had first believed.

"I was assigned patrol to this corridor, Commander. We usually attempt to keep your femmes' patrols and ours staggered, so that we do not overlap. Are you aware of this, ma'am?"

"I _am_ aware of the patrol shifts and the attempts made to time them properly, and I appreciate you and your Commander's thoughtfulness in that regard." Elita replied gracefully, inclining her helm. The Decepticon looked somewhat soothed by this acknowledgement of the Decepticon's efforts, and continued.

"In this case I had the misfortune of colliding with your officer - ah, _literally_. A discussion was had concerning the matter of who must have begun their patrol at the wrong place or time." Helex looked furious at the mere memory of it, and Elita could well imagine why. Chromia, sparkmate to Ironhide and Elita One's personal body-guard, was hardly known for her tact when it came to Decepticons.

Elita nodded to herself as the mech ended his explanation, making a note to talk to Commander Tarn about interfaction relations during the duration of their mission.

The DJD (Decepticon Justice Division) had disliked the close proximity they were forced to share with the Autobot Femmes as much as the femmes themselves did. The combination of their forces was necessary - and even healthy, in Elita's opinion, but not all of her fellow femmes were of a like mind. As far as the Decepticons went, she believed Tarn understood the necessity and benefits of the situation even if his mechs didn't. The DJD Commander was abnormally quiet, but the few times he did speak, he proved that he was intelligent, understanding, and had excellent foresight.

At the start of their mission, the AFC and DJD were wary of one another, respectively. The femmes outnumbered their mech allies by three to one or so, but their chosen vessel, _The Nemesis_, was Decepticon in make and furnishing, giving the DJD an advantage as well.

Elita couldn't have imagined a more fertile ground for the propagation of peace, as well as an increase in interfaction understanding.

Chromia and Helex's case, however, was only one of many things that proved such progress would be longer in coming than Elita had anticipated...

The femme commander turned to her second-in-command. "Chromia, please report to my offices after your patrol is finished. Helex," She turned to the Decepticon, who shifted beneath her look, plating rattling with discomfort. "I suggest you do the same and report to your Commander. I'll be sending him my own report directly." Elita had no authority over Helex. Sending him to Tarn was the best she could do.

Both bots saluted, Chromia looking satisfied, Helex slightly glum.

Elita dismissed the two with a nod, and continued down the hallway, ignoring the mutters and clanks of both Autobot and Decepticon making grudging exits.

Dull grey walls passed the pink femme on either side, shimmers of violet light dancing over their smooth surfaces. The air was cold; her ventilations misted in the air. Soon, Elita arrived at her destination.

There were many duties for Elita One. Many concerns gnawed at her insides and bit at her spark. Ever since Optimus had requested her presence on this mission, she had known it would be difficult. He had looked so sad, and spoken so softly… They both knew she wouldn't return for many vorns; there were dangers which might prevent her coming home at all.

There were splinter groups of Autobots and Decepticons strewn in pockets of war across the galaxies. Some of their positions were so remote that there was no method of contact save for actually landing there and speaking to them personally. It was to these that the AFC and the DJD were to bring the news of peace. This was their mission. So far, they had only managed to reach a small group of Decepticons and two Autobot squads, who possessed enough fuel and the means necessary to make their own way home.

Elita discovered that, in-between times when she must serve her femmes and ensure her own health, there were moments when she could relax; times when their vessel was traveling through space, with no contacts available and nothing to do but wait.

It was in times like these that she came to the place she had now sought out.

On one side, there was the dark grey, flat inhibitions of _The Nemesis_'s corridor design. On the other was a vast expanse; a doorway into the world beyond _The Nemesis_'s walls and protective layers of metal. Windows - thick, clear windows - drew the curtain from a masterful painting: Space.

Space had an icy beauty. Bands of glittering stars swept across fathomless, unending blackness; blazing balls of freezing fire swept their tails across horizons - there was no 'up' or 'down' in space, as there was on a planet or a moon. There was just direction: closer to Venedal Athelon, the planet marking the edge of Cybertronians' expedition into space, or farther from the same. All was distance. And distance was what separated Elita One from her sparkmate.

Their bond was faint after so long and so far apart; she could barely feel flickers of Optimus' consciousness, brushing against her tenderly. It was in silence and solitude that she could best immerse herself in those weak echoes, closing her optics and simply reveling in the_ feel_ of Optimus Prime, as he did her.

But soft, weighty steps sounded from behind her, shattering the hope of once again partaking in that loving exchange…for the moment, at least.

Elita sighed to herself, not bothering to turn around and see who it was. It didn't matter; if they needed her, they would speak. If they didn't, they would move on.

She _was_ surprised, however, when _Tarn's_ large, menacing frame moved subtly into her peripheral vision, standing beside her and gazing out into the glittering space beyond the windows. Tarn rarely sought Elita out. Megatron's right-hand mech rarely sought _anyone_ out, unless that person was in need of some Decepticon discipline. The massive Decepticon kept to himself and did not impose his company upon others; seeming to prefer to operate as he always had in the past - despite the benefits that cooperation with his femme allies would bring him. Yes, he acknowledged their existence and did not interfere with their methods of operation, but he did little more by way of interfaction cooperation.

That he had approached her now was a strange development.

Giving up the pretense of having not noticed him (he was _twice _her size, after all) Elita offered a greeting. "Commander."

He returned it solemnly, with the sense of power and menace that accompanied him everywhere. "Commander." Tarn's vocals were deep. Elita had known her fair share of deep-voiced mechs - she was _bonded_ to one, and was close friends with another. But the Decepticon's words were was an entirely new realm of 'deep', where vocals were concerned. They sent vibrations through the floor, thrumming into her structures and purring a bass, chocolaty response. Thankfully, he spoke no more; ceasing to move in any way once his reply had been delivered. Elita barely heard his whispering ventilations, her own sounding thunderous in comparison.

It seemed ironic to realize that the leader of the DJD was, by trade and practice, a stealth operative. With his enormous chassis, broad shoulders, and well-shaped legs, he looked more akin to Megatron than any other bot Elita had seen before. He even shared the common gladiatorial trait of a small, lithe waist beneath his protruding front. But, if rumors proved true, Tarn's clawed servos were more used to inserting knives or needles into tubing than hand-to-hand combat - at least, that was what the Decepticon was renowned for. Whether or not he was also skillful in the more brutal areas of combat, Elita didn't know. But his movements and ventilations were hushed in the manner of an assassin; well-oiled and carefully modulated. It was chilling.

After a few moments of waiting for him to speak, Elita relaxed, turning her attention to the beautiful view she had sought out. The possibility that Tarn was here for precisely the same purpose was…strange, but it was becoming increasingly likely. In that case, Elita was content to enjoy herself in silence, allowing the Decepticon beside her to do the same.

So his words, spoken suddenly and without warning, came as a surprise. "I understand we are approximately five breems from our next destination."

Elita shuttered her optics rapidly, caught off guard. "I believe so." She agreed, internally checking the logs and discovering that the timeline was approximately correct.

The conversation might have ended there, but Tarn continued. If Elita hadn't known the mech as she did, she would have almost thought his tone was conversational. "Do we have an incline of whether the derelicts are Autobot or Decepticon?"

"No - their comm. links are disabled. Whatever vessel they had with them is offline as well, and the visual communications with it."

What on earth was the big mech playing at? Elita hadn't been so unsettled since she'd mistakenly believed Megatron was flirting with her when they first met, at the peace negotiations. But she kept her words steady and professional; hiding her confusion.

"A pity." From the corner of her vision, she saw the bright red optics shift, and turned to meet the Decepticon's gaze, wondering what he could possibly be trying to achieve.

Tarn's look was, as always, guarded; as though the Decepticon had too many secrets and had been forced to hide some in his optics rather than his subspace.

Elita felt an instinctive urge to smirk at his serious expression, but refrained for diplomacy's sake. "Oh?" She said instead, openly challenging him to explain himself.

The Decepticon rose to the occasion. "It would be more efficient if we knew which of our number to send down," He explained. "In case of hostility towards one faction or the other."

"Yes," Elita agreed readily, already imagining the sort of tragedy that could occur of they sent down the wrong bots. She winced. "Unfortunately, unless we send in a reconnaissance team, there's no way of preventing that situation."

"Such a team could be arranged." Was it her imagination, or did he sound as though he were trying to reassure her? But it was too polite and formal to be a reassurance.

But what he offered would not be sufficient or helpful, unless… "Do you mean Decepticons or Autobots as a single group, or a combination of our soldiers?" She asked curiously.

Tarn's reply sent jolts of shock through Elita. "A combination would be most efficient and tactically sound." He asserted, turning away to look once more out of the windows, scarlet optics flickering.

Elita smiled openly, feeling a warmth in her spark. What her fellow Commander was offering wasn't much, but after a vorn of settling disputes and attempting to bring their squads into better cooperation, it was a wonderful start.

"Thank you, Commander." She told him, pouring sincerity into her words.

Surprised, Tarn shot her a sharp look. "You're welcome, Commander." Her replied, and the '_fragging strange femmes...'_ did not need to be spoken aloud.

Elita turned away, trying to stifle a laugh, but froze.

Space stared back at her, but Elita wasn't meeting it's gaze. She was frozen, shocked by the sensation rippling through her spark.

_He was gone._

Tarn's voice, sounding slightly confused, sounded behind her. "Commander?"

Elita shook. When she spoke, her vocalizer sparked with static, rasping with shock. "Where is he…?" She whispered, blind to anything but the strange emptiness in her spark. Her frame trembled; her plating shivered; pink servos clutched at her chassis, the digits crunched together in a desperate clasp over her spark chamber.

"Comma-"

She didn't hear the rest. With a painful jerk of sudden movement she was running, stumbling along the hall, her pedes slamming down and propelling her forward. She could feel the vibrations of somebot giving chase - heard the whisper of a voice calling - but she didn't care.

The bond between her and Optimus was still there - he hadn't died. But there was a vacant space where there had never been one before.

He _hadn't died_. He _wasn't gone_.

He wasn't. He couldn't be. But where was he?

She didn't know where she was going - as long as it took her closer to her bonded, whether by inches or by miles, she couldn't care less. She was sprinting past bots now, shoving a green-tinged femme aside. Her vision was blurred. Wet trails streamed down her cheeks, and her intakes were rattling painfully.

Large, clawed servos snaked around her waist - she jerked to a halt in their hold.

"No!" She screamed, static ripping her words, tearing them into a nonsensical howl. "Let me go!"

"What the _frag_-!"

"Let her go, _Decepticon_!"

"Commander, what-?!"

Elita ignored them all, scratching and snarling at the servos that held her immobile. Their owner grunted in a deep, growling tone as her assault bit into him, he only reeled her in in response. A heavy chassis pressed tightly against her back - thick arms wrapped her in a solid embrace. Elita roared her fury, writhing furiously in her assailent's grip.

"He needs me!" She snarled, trying to explain, but the bot didn't listen. The corridor was moving swiftly around her; the ground was flashing by beneath her captor's pedes as the bot brought her back the way she had come - farther from Optimus. Sounds of battle thundered in Elita's audials, receding into the distance as they moved on, but it meant nothing to her. She bucked and writhed, desperately trying to get away - to get to him.

"Let me g-!"

Pain throbbed suddenly in the femme's spark, and she let out a shocked wail. Fire burned within her - agony licked her spark with malicious delight. She was tearing, falling, shattering, _dying_.

"Elita One!" A deep voice hissed, breaking through the storm of sensation and loss; echoing harshly in her audials.

She was sobbing, her cries no more than ragged rasps, her tears streaming in stinging trickles down her faceplates. All her strength was gone - she felt weak and powerless.

She was flat on her back on the ground, and scarlet optics were blazing above her. Her struggles screeched feebly against heavier plating, and the mech crouching over her stared down with an indiscernible look on his faceplates.

He could look all he wanted. She didn't care, anymore.

With a shuddering gasp, Elita curled inward towards whatever was grasping her wrists, searching for something solid and stable in the whirling storm of chaos that surrounded her. She pressed her faceplates against it, her tears staining the surface's dark metal, which twitched as she came into contact with it.

The emptiness ate at her. Her frame shivered with exhaustion. Her spark guttered in her chassis, and Elita's vision flickered as her systems responded in kind, mimicking their source of life.

She was almost glad when darkness took her, devouring her consciousness until there was nothing left but blackness and a pair of scarlet optics watching her fade away.

"_Optimus_…"

* * *

_In the Decepticon Med-bay..._

"Get him down-! Slag it, Ironhide, hold his legs! Megatron, you big oaf! Stop staring and start sitting on the slagger!" Ratchet's hands blurred, tools clicking and whirring into place as the medic moved with a precision learned from long years of war. His red and white frame was stained with smoke and ash, mixed into a disgusting sludge by the addition of trickles and spatters of energon on his plating. But none of it was important - beneath his servos, Optimus Prime thrashed, his body buckling and spasming. The mech himself was offline, processor-wise, but a Prime functioned differently than most cybertronians. Their systems _could not_ be taken offline. It had been a source of great pain for the Prime and his medic, in times past. Now, it was proving itself once again to be a pit-worthy irritation. The two biggest mechs at Ratchet's disposal were struggling to keep Optimus from ripping himself apart with his jerking movements, or shearing off Ratchet's servo with a badly timed thrash.

Ironhide's engine snarled, and Ratchet spared his friend a look, gauging the cause.

The Autobot Weapons Specialist was overheating from the strain of his actions; his optics were almost white. The black mech heaved and grunted, all but laying himself out over Optimus' lower half in an attempt to halt the Prime's movements.

Ratchet turned back to the enormous wound in Optimus' chest, pushing his worries for Ironhide to the back of his processors. He simply couldn't afford to care, at the moment. If he took the time to do so, Optimus would deactivate.

To Ratchet's right, Megatron was restraining Optimus' upper half with far less difficulty than Ironhide was experiencing with the lower. Megatron and Optimus were of a size, and as such the silver mech was perfect for the task Ratchet had given him. The one-time Decepticon Lord barely shivered with Optimus' increased ferocity, scarlet optics fiery and determined, his grip as powerful as it had ever been. If several vorns of peace hadn't changed his understanding of the gladiator, Ratchet might have thought he looked murderous rather than eager to save the life of his one-time nemesis.

Manuevering around Megatron's massive arms and clawed servos was difficult, but Ratchet managed it. Their position was extremely awkward - Ratchet had to practically shove himself back against Megatron's chassis, his leg hooked around the Decepticon's forearm - but that didn't matter to Ratchet, and he couldn't care less if it mattered to Megatron. What _mattered_ was keeping the pale blue, faintly flickering orb of life in Optimus' chassis alive.

Ratchet ripped the red plating aside like bits of tin, delving into the circuitry beneath with skillful precision. Sparking wires were removed and replaced in blurs of movement; burnt bits of metal were cut entirely away, and leaves of new metal were left in their place, fused together by Ratchet's smoldering welder. Wires connected into Optimus' systems, and Ratchet cut through malfunctioning code brutally, weaving together the threads he could salvage, and severing those he couldn't.

His frame was trembling, steadied only by the solid mass of the Decepticon Lord's chassis behind him. Once upon a time, Ratchet would probably be dead in seconds from this position, but at the moment the support was all too welcome.

Still, it meant that Megatron's growl rumbled through him and into Optimus, rattling loose plating, and Ratchet stiffened. "Stop your grumbling!" He snarled over his shoulder, only half paying attention to his own words or the fact that they were directed at a hulking, living _weapon_ that was currently bearing most of the medic's weight. The vibrations would affect Optimus' spark - possibly negatively so. Thus, they needed to stop, and screw the diplomatic relations.

Ratchet's digits blurred as he worked. The med-bay lights stared down apathetically at the scene, as, Ratchet cynically thought, did Primus.

But the medic still sent a desperate prayer to the deity, and he knew that there were many others doing the same.

The last Prime alive might die, this night, and still the world would spin on.

That thought was more terrifying to Ratchet than all the Megatrons there could ever be.

* * *

_Two Solar Cycles Later..._

_Memory file .001…accessed…begin playback? Yes. Playback commencing…_

_Cold. Heat. Darkness. Light._

_Together, side by side in massive black digits - fear as amber orbs glowed down, blazing but soft; gentled by emotion._

_Love, flowing between the three; circling their sparks and fluttering happily within their very being._

_"My twins…"_

_(Skip to frequently visited site: 43rd cycle of life: Sideswipe-Sunstreaker? Yes. Playback commencing…)_

_"Axelond, stop it!" Servos holding his arms, pulling his bucking, blood-red frame back and away from the two figures writhing on the floor; high-pitched shrieks of laughter ringing in his audials. "Stop it, you guys! Stop it!" -_

_\- Dark servos gripping him, gouging deep, heavy scratches into dull, sickly yellow plating. A voice yelling; he knew the owner, and suddenly wished the person anywhere else but here. he didn't want to be seen like this… -_

_\- Sunstreaker on the ground, silver faceplates crumbling, a tear glittering down a battered cheek. Fury. Yelps of fear, anger, and shock. Axelond's frame beneath his digits, the metal warped and pounded under a rain of blows from his fists._

_"Sideswipe!" Jade._

_"Sides, don't!" Daystar._

_Shame from his other half. Self-loathing. _:You had to save me…: _He couldn't disagree. He'd had to. _:You always have to.: -

\- _Useless. Dirty. Broken. Sideswipe, tearing into Axelond, who screamed his own twin's name aloud: "Evanescence! Eva, help!" That he'd had to say it out loud only proved how shattered and distant the two's bond had become. -_

_\- "What is this?" A towering, winged black figure billowing into their midst, scooping up the two quarreling sparkling and separating them. Warm amber watched them both with sadness in its gaze. Sire was disappointed. He cringed, trying to ignore the sting of adult digits digging into his plating._

_"They were hurting Sunny!" He protested, but was silenced with a shake._

_"Enough. No insult or injury is worth discord among my sparklings. Sunstreaker must learn to defend himself."_

_"But they don't let him talk!"_

_"He must learn to make them listen."_

_It didn't make sense, but Sideswipe trusted his sire. The sting of betrayal that stabbed through the bond came as a complete surprise. He whimpered._

_Ionicon's look darkened, and Sideswipe felt it shift; felt the nervous fear from his twin as Ionicon's attention found Sunstreaker._

_"Enough. Come with me."_

_There was terror in the bond, and Sideswipe bristled automatically, snarling at the cause. Ionicon struck him, and he fell, rolling heavily across the uneven floor._

_"Sunstreaker. Come…with me." Deadly. Sunstreaker obeyed, and the bond slid shut. Sideswipe curled into a ball, shivering; ignoring the somewhat worried glances the others shot his way. It felt cold without his twin. He felt empty._

_(Skip to frequently visited site: 88th cycle of life: Sideswipe-Sunstreaker? Yes. Playback commencing…)_

_Run. Stop. Breathe. Clasping servos. Dancing shadows clawed across a wall. Energon seeping. Pain. Fear. Run._

_They couldn't stop. As unused to their new frames as they were, their progress was further impeded by the dripping wounds inflicted by the others._

_:Go on.:_

_:I won't! They'll kill you!:_

_:Don't die for me. They've always preferred you.:_

_:We're the same. They want us both.:_

_A heave; struggling; plating grinding alongside the hiss of burning slag and crumbling rubble. Drip, drip, drip…_

_:He isn't our sire.:_

_:Yes, he is.:_

_:We shouldn't be alive.:_

_A humorless chuckle._

_:Does that make us a calamity or a miracle?: No response, then:_

_:I love you.: Soft, quiet, honest. Vivid, passionate, and true._

_:I love you too.:_

* * *

Sideswipe woke with a jolt, systems shrieking warnings at him. The red twin's body contorted, twisting into a defensive crouch, denta's bared - his servos tensed, ready to claw, rip, and tear whatever was attacking them into a mess of bleeding slag.

He wasn't expecting the wrench that solidly collided with his helm.

His helm jerked backward, his neck _cricking_ painfully. His forehead stung, and the pain was distracting. "Ow! What the fra-!" But before he could finish his profanity, two large, shockingly red servos snagged his helm and _tweaked _something at the back of it.

Sideswipe's frame went limp, sprawling in an graceless mess over the top of the medical berth he was occupying. Errors pinged, red glowing icons flaring to life in his vision. The bot had - apparently - disabled his motor controls…How…?

"Before you get started on your list of stupid things to do today, let me offer you some advice." Blazing blue optics came into focus above him; the mech's face was cast into shadow by the overly bright med-bay lights overhead. The resulting effect would be called sinister by even the most courageous mechs.

Sideswipe glowered up at his attacker, remaining sullenly silent. Obviously taking this as a sign of submission, the strange mech continued, his rough vocals snapping the words out crisply; like bits of rusting metal crunched underfoot.

"A: I'm not about to take any slag you might have planned. Two: You're a patient in my med-bay. That means I as good as own your sorry carcass until I deem you fit to be kicked out of here. I expect utter obedience from my property. C: If you're planning any escape attempts, just know that's exactly what they'll be: attempts." The mech looked serious.

Sideswipe gaped.

"It won't be an attempt when we leave your body in pieces on this floor, mech."

Good old Sunstreaker; always ready to have a verbal slugging match with those more powerful than them, and at the time one would least expect him to be willing to converse with _anyone_.

Sideswipe leeched down the bond to see how his twin was faring, only to discover that Sunstreaker had experienced much the same wake-up procedure as he had, with the one exception being that his ordeal had been several minutes prior to Sideswipe's. The golden twin was laid out in a careful manner on a med-berth somewhere behind and beyond Sideswipe's helm. Funnily enough, most of his ire seemed to stem from the fact that the mysterious wrench-wielding mad-mech had arranged the twin's body himself, after the decking and immobilizing part of the procedure.

Said mech laughed derisively at Sunstreaker's threat, already snagging Sideswipe's ankle and jerking it - with his leg - into an (admittedly) more pleasant position. The same process was used for the rest of the red twin's body, and Sideswipe had to endure the indignity of it along with Sunstreaker's possessive snarls and promises of revenge. "You couldn't take apart a circuit-board, kid."

The insult stung all the more since neither of the twins knew what a 'circuit-board' even _was_, let alone how to take it apart. But in such destructive areas as tearing things to bits, one could always afford to improvise.

Sneering, about to smack this comeback into the strange mech's faceplates, Sideswipe opened his lips to speak - just as the mech decided to move away. The red twin promptly gaped at what was revealed to have lain behind the cherry-servoed menace, laid out meticulously on a large med-berth at the center of the room.

Optimus Prime. One of the first mechs they'd met in this base.

Red and blue plating, scarred and stained almost beyond recognition, rose and fell with the enormous bot's weak ventilations. The frame was gutted - systems were removed from its insides and placed on nearby tables, still connected and functioning effectively. Suspended by heavy cables, reenforced metal rods, and a skeletal scaffold, a spark chamber hung, just above open chassis plates. Feeble, flickering blue light cast faint shadows on the surrounding surfaces. Sideswipe felt Sunstreaker's awe as the golden twin saw through Sideswipe's optics. The more detail-oriented twin saw the subtle streaks of black and silver over deathly still servos; the subtle weld-lines along the intricate web of structures within the chassis. Something had cut through Optimus Prime's back, slicing brutally through energon-lines, systems, and even the spark chamber itself. There was a jagged but neatly repaired line along the bottom corner of the big mech's spark housing.

The big mech was damaged beyond belief, but he was alive.

Feeling Sunstreaker's awe turn to interest, Sideswipe allowed his twin to continue the examination alone. He felt ill.

Gulping heavily, Sideswipe turned his attention to the strange mech, only to find dusty white backplates and a shiny red aft facing him. Medical insignias were printed in the bot's paint nannites, making no visible mark on the smooth surface, but signaling his rank in a bold proclamation:

_Chief Medical Officer._

Oooh. He probably should have noticed that sooner. Wait. What? What the frag had that wrench been, then?

"Excuse me, but are you a medic?" Sideswipe asked politely, forcing his tone to be extra sweet. He got a strange look in response: half bemused, half wry irritation.

"You must be more damaged than I thought." The mech grumbled easily, resuming his attentions - he was swiping a polishing rag over the unconscious Prime's plating. "Yes, I'm the Autobot CMO."

"Oh, that's nice. Mind telling me _why the frag they let a pit-slagged sadist be CMO?!_" His pleasant tone had warped into a furious, rattling shriek by the end; Sideswipe let fury rage through his circuits. It seemed as though, no matter the place and no matter the time, the twins couldn't find a decent medic _anywhere_. They were all _insane_. Just his and Sunstreaker's luck…

The bot gave him an unimpressed look, silver lips thinning to a displeased line. "No, I don't mind. Just as soon as you tell me how _you_ got here, I'll tell you how _I_ got here." He spoke as though he were talking to a particularly stupid sparkling with learning disabilities. Sideswipe _broiled_.

"We came looking for medical treatment." He bit out, trying to sear optic-shaped burns into the medic's faceplates with his glare.

"Why'd you need it?" The bot shot back, returning the glare with one of his own. He was far more experienced than Sideswipe, in the area of looks-meant-to-kill. Had probably graduated with maximum honors, by Sideswipe's reckoning.

The red twin shifted his gaze onto an innocent bystander - some sort of vent overhead. He felt vindictive, and since the medic wasn't about to bow beneath his assault, the vent would serve as a stand-in.

Sullenly, Sideswipe answered the medic's question - because really, at the end of it all, it would be better for the mechs they sought help from to know what was coming for them. "Our Sire didn't take well to our decision to leave him."

The hum and soft shifts of the medic's systems stalled, and Sideswipe could tell the mech was listening carefully. "You're…Sire? It was my understanding that at the level of development you two have gotten to - Primus only knows _how_ \- that Sires had no holding over their creations…" The medic trailed off, sounding thoughtful. Then suspicion entered his tone - suspicion, and a kind of reluctant expectation. "How old are you?" He asked.

Sideswipe kept his gaze firmly fixed on the grate overhead. He didn't want to see how this news was received.

"Oh, about three vorns." He tossed out blithely, attempting to sound careless and unconcerned.

Something clattered to the floor, and within seconds of it's descent, the twins learned the true meaning of "profanity", both gaping in stupefied awe as the medic spewed filth from his vocalizer in streams of snarls, growls, and furious barks, before ending in one wrathful howl.

"I'm going to fragging _kill_ him!"

* * *

Author's note: Well, there it is. Not entirely satisfied with it, but that's mostly because there's too much going on to fully explain all of it at once, and it's all needed for the next chapter. -_-

I hope you liked it! Again, sorry for the wait and false alarm. :(

Please please _please_ review! For this one especially, I'd like to hear what you think. Also, there's a poll on my profile regarding this story if anyone's interested.

Until next time!

~TheWeepingWillow555


	13. Announcement (Important - please read)

Hello, everyone! This is an important announcement. If you care about this story at all, please read.

First of all, I want to thank those who have supported this story. You're the reason I can keep writing it, and I'm so grateful to you all. Hugs to each of you. :3

Secondly, I want to apologize for the lateness of this notice, and the fact that it's not a new chapter. I've been rereading this fanfic, and while I still love the plot/characters, I've realized that I haven't managed to do them justice. So here's my plan, basically:

I intend to rewrite "Light of My World", with only minor plot/character changes and far more content. No switching drastic time-spans, more character interaction and explanation, and WAY more introduction for new characters, plot points, etc. I want to improve the style of writing and focus more on enjoying the story than basically bullet-pointing important plot-twists and highlights.

I'm so sorry about this - I know I've kept you all waiting (however few "you all" actually turns out to be…), and I feel very guilty about that. Life caught up with me, and when it had slowed down enough for me to turn my attention back to my stories, I realized I couldn't keep going in the way I had been up till this point.

I hope you all understand.

Lastly, I wanted to see if any of you have ideas for improvement you think would be good for me to incorporate? Just PM me or leave your advice in a review, if you would be so kind as to give any. I'm eager to see your interests and opinion of the story - of where you think it is/should be going. I'm afraid that I won't be changing the main, overarching plot regardless of suggestions, but smaller plot changes I can consider. :)

Thank you all so much for everything you've done for me - for reading this story and leaving reviews for me. It gave me such pleasure to read every one of them, and I hope I can return your kindness by giving you a story worth the read, now that I have a better concept of how it should be written. The story will remain the same, for the most part. Very few changes, except to inconsistent characters or plot-holes. I hope you enjoy. The first chapter will be coming out relatively soon, I hope. :)

Until then, I wish you all the best.

~TheWeepingWillow555


	14. Announcement (New Version Up PLEASEREAD)

Hello, everyone!

First and foremost, I am so sorry for taking this long. Never thought I would. Life caught up with me big time, and it took way more than I thought to fix up Light of My World to the point where I was satisfied. Thankfully, I got there, and the new version is up. Just go to my profiled and look for it - same title, but there's "(revised)" after it. :) (Also, there's a way better explanation of things inside there…)

I'm not going to waste much time telling you things here, so go take a peak if you're still interested! New chapter should be up really soon - I'm going to try and stay at least one chapter ahead from now on, and publish every two weeks or so… if I can't keep my promise, I'll let you know and explain why.

Good reading, everyone! Thanks to all of you for sticking with this story and helping me out so much - you're all amazing.

~TheWeepingWillow555


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